Not On Purpose
by Max Alleyne
Summary: AU. On her wedding night in 1649, Anna Marie finds herself in prison, surrounded by an interesting cast of characters, including a mysterious red-eyed thief. ROMY with a side of JOTT.
1. Curious New Companions

**Author's Note:** So, this occured to me recently and I started writing. However, since it is AU, some of the backstory is slightly changed, mostly to make it fit into the time period. I fully intend for this to go the ROMY route (because Gambit and Rogue are awesome), with maybe just a smidge of JOTT (because I can't help it, I love those two). Any feedback would be greatlly appreciated, because I'm not really sure how I feel about this, so please let me know.

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"Let me outta here! Yah can't just throw a woman in jail!" the young woman shouted. "Ah didn't do anything!" Well, actually, she didn't do anything _on purpose, _but that was just a technicality to these people. If they even believed her, which they probably didn't.

"You're probably safer in here than you are out there," the guard growled as he locked the door behind her.

"Please, Ah didn't…Please, Ah'm innocent!" she continued shouting over the sounds of the mob outside the prison. Of course, her protests meant nothing to the guards that had just thrown her into her cell. They didn't mean anything to the angry but frightened mob outside, either, and she was damn sure that they weren't going to mean anything to a judge. Apparently, from the groans she was hearing from next door, they didn't mean anything to her fellow prisoners, either.

"Please! Ah'm sorr-"

"Hush, before you say something you're going to regret," a voice hissed.

"Who—Who's there?"

"Just be quiet and listen," the voice continued. "Back here, in the corner."

For the first time, she took a moment to take in her new surroundings. The cell was small, with hay covering the stone floors in a half-hearted attempt to make it less uncomfortable. Of course, she was quite sure that they didn't actually care about the comfort of a criminal, but hay was better than the cold stones beneath it. The walls were wooden, and quite thin, except the outside wall, which was thick stone. Her door had a tiny, barred window, as did the wall to the outside. Since it was well into the early hours of the morning, the only light available was that from the torches in the hallway, which really was not much at all.

She began to feel the wall, looking for some sort of opening or crack. Her small, gloved hands slid easily through a whole in the splintering wood. In the faint light, she could see the faint outline of another woman on the other side. Unfortunately, she couldn't see her face or anything else about her. "Who are you?" she asked again, her voice a bit sharper this time.

"The official title would be Lady Jean Summers, but that isn't important right now. You have to calm down and stop yelling. If you don't, you're going to reveal more than you want to."

"What do yah mean?"

"If you say that you didn't do anything _on purpose, _the guards will hear your confession, and you're as a good as gone," the other woman said, her voice low and urgent.

"How do yah know all…how did yah know Ah didn't do it on purpose? Ah never said anything out loud—"

"But you were thinking it, and when you're having a fit of hysterics, everything just slips out. And _keep your voice down. _ The guard has really good hearing."

"Stop snapping at meh. Ah don't know about yah, but this is a lot for meh tah take in. And how do yah know what Ah'm thinkin'?"

The Lady Jean sighed in frustration, then was silent for a long time, and her companion felt every moment of it. Her heart was racing, her breathing labored. She could still hear the sounds of the mob outside the prison walls, calling for her blood. A chill ran down her spine, and she knew that there really was no hope for her. Not after what she had done to her husband. Even if it was an accident.

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," the Lady Jean finally replied.

"Yah just told meh exactly what Ah was—"

"Hush! From the sounds of the mob outside, you're in here for the very same reason I am—"  
"Murder?"

"No, though I'm sure they'll try to blame me for that, too. They're calling for Matthew Hopkins to inspect you. That means they think that you are a witch."

The newcomer was quiet for a long time, taking in what she had just heard. It had not really gotten through to her that she was going to prison for witchcraft. Not that she practiced magic, she had been raised a devout Baptist, though her new husband had not been. He was a proud member of the Church of England. At this point, she didn't think that any of that mattered. Not when there was a crowd outside determined to metaphorically have her head on a platter…at least she hoped it was metaphorical. Not that hanging would be any more pleasant.

"Ah'm not a witch. Ah didn't m—"

"It doesn't matter. Public opinion is what matters. The guard wasn't wrong when he said that you're safer in here than you are out there. At least in here you'll get a trial. That buys you some time."

"Buys meh some time? What do yah mean?"

"You and I both know what happens to witches. At least they can't get to us in here. Given that we're both nobi—" She cut herself off before she screwed up and let something slip that she didn't mean to say. "Tell me about yourself," she whispered, trying to correct her near-mistake.

"Ah'm Anna Marie Robbinson…Ah guess now it's the Lady Anna Marie Robbinson. That's mah married name. Ah was a Darkholme before," she said. "Ah was married earlier tahday—"

"Your accent…where are you from?" Jean asked, despite already knowing the answer. Most of society had been taken aback when they had heard that Lord Coty Robbinson was going to marry a colonist. She was the daughter of a rich plantation owner, yes, and her dowry was enough to keep him in business for the rest of his life, but she was still a colonist. Most of them thought she was not fit for English high society, but the arrangement suited Coty: he had a shipping business, the Darkholmes needed someone to ship their goods. It seemed like a mutually beneficial deal.

"Ah was born in the colonies…Carolina. Mah father needed someone tah ship his goods, and Coty owned a shippin' company. He did—does good business, and we were the wealthiest family in Carolina…the match made sense. O' course, mah dowry wasn't small, so that was beneficial, too…what's gonna happen tah us?"

Of course she had heard what happened to witches: they confessed and died in prison, or they didn't confess and were hanged for their honesty. Neither situation was really sitting right with Anna Marie. In fact, despite the recent and…interesting developments in her life, she still wanted to live it. There were still so many things that she wanted to do, and the thought that she might not ever get to do them…well, to say that it pained her was the understatement of the seventeenth century. It left her feeling completely overwhelmed and disoriented.

"Calm down, you're giving me a headache," Jean whispered. "I'll explain shortly."

"Well Ah wanna know _now,_" she snapped.

"Look, I'll explain in due time, but not right now. Give me a few minutes."

Realizing that she wasn't going to say anything until she deemed it the right time, Anna Marie quieted and tried to focus on her calming herself. This eventually turned into pacing until the guard banged on the door to quiet her.

"Stop pacing and sit down," he growled. Jean had been right, his hearing was quite amazing. She hadn't been making any noise other than the rustling of her skirts against the hay on the floor. Not wanting to anger him any further, she settled in the corner other back corner.

"If 'y could calm down, 'dat would be great," a male voice whispered. Her heart jumped into her throat. "Right here, _chere._" A large, male, gloved hand slid through a large crack in the wall. She could also hear the sound of shackles clanking as the hand moved.

"Who are yah?" she asked, surprised but also delighted at discovering a new companion, even if they were separated by a wall.

"'Dat's not importan'. What's importan' is 'dat—"

"Hush, you two! I'm not deaf," the guard barked, banging on Anna Marie's door once again. "You're pushing your luck, Lady Robbinson. I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you."

"Do what he says. His shift ends soon," he said. Knowing that the guard was over hearing them, he addressed him directly. "Don' it, _mon ami_?" Anna Marie could have sworn that she heard him growl in response. But animals growl, not people. Sure enough, several minutes later, someone came to relieve the guard on duty. Even the guy taking his place sounded a bit afraid of him.

"Why is everyone so afraid of him?" she whispered once the guard was gone.

"'Y should ask Jean. She's been in here longer 'dan Remy."

"Remy?"

"'Dat's meh. Remy LeBeau, at 'y service, ma'am."

"How do yah know about Jean?" she asked, noticing that they wouldn't be able to speak because of her cell. Remy was silent for a long time before he answered.

"'Y should ask Jean," he answered. "She knew 'im better 'dan Remy."

"Well Jean don't wanna talk."

"'Da man 'dat was in 'dis cell before 'y was her husband. 'Dey took him away yesterday," Remy said quietly. She was completely mesmerized by his strange accent and velvet voice. She meant to ask him where he was from but she was distracted by the faint sounds of someone crying. Knowing that it was coming from the other side of her cell, she left her new companion and went to check on Jean. She couldn't see her, but she could hear the sobs that Jean was trying to muffle. Concerned for her new friend, she asked, "What's goin' on, Jean?"

"You want to know what's going on? What's going on is that all of us: you, me, Scott—my husband—and Remy are all suspected of witchcraft. Sometime soon, the Witch-Finder General is going to come calling with his crew of followers to examine us, and I'm sure they are going to find plenty of evidence that we're witches, despite the fact that nothing we do is our fault."

"The Witch-Finder General?"

"Matthew Hopkins. He goes around in the area looking for witches, and when he thinks—excuse me, knows, because that man is never uncertain—he has found one, he examines them and does all sorts of ridiculous things to them to prove that they're a witch. Then they either confess or don't. Either way, we're probably going to die if we don't find some way out of here."

"Is that why we're all bein' held separately?"

"Yes. They don't want us all together because our so-called powers might overwhelm them.

"So…why are yah here? Ah mean, other than the obvious."

"Scott and I were married six months ago. We've known each other for ages, though. We grew up on neighboring estates. Ever since we were little, I've always been able to…hear what other people are thinking. I can also move small objects with my mind. When Scott turned fourteen, he started having…well, let's just say that the expression "if looks could kill" definitely applies. One day some peddler—claiming to be a scholar—turns up around the estates and tells Scott that he has something to help him keep things under control. Glasses made of ruby quartz. They did just the trick, and Scott hasn't had a problem since then. Until a few nights ago…I didn't mean to, but…I've been having nightmares lately, and one night, I made the entire bedroom shake. They shook the glasses off his face, burned a hole through half the house, in full view of all the help, who promptly called the police and had us dragged here. They took Scott yesterday…

"It's hard…your cell used to be my husband's. They suspected things... and they thought we were consorting with Satan together. He's still here, but…I used to have him close, and I could slip my hand through the wall, and he would hold it, and I would just know that somehow, everything is going to be okay. Now he's gone, and I just want him back," Jean whispered, trying to hide the tears in her voice. "I keep trying to think of something else, to take my mind off things, but nothing works. If it weren't for our link, I think I'd been insane."

"Link?"

"We hear each other's thoughts, if we project them strongly enough."

"Oh…so yah can talk tah him…rahght now?"

"Yes. I am, actually," she replied sadly.

"Ah guess Ah'll leave yah tah that, then." Anna Marie moved away from the wall she shared with Jean and back to the side she shared with this strange Remy LeBeau. It was odd. She was still afraid—definitely afraid of dying and the apparent tests to come, but now her curiosity about this mysterious, velvet-voiced stranger was enough to help push the fear from her mind. She pressed her cheek against the wall between them, peeking through the crack, only to find a red eye staring back at her. She didn't pull away. Instead, she pressed herself closer to the wall, determined to get closer. There was something magnetic about this man, and she wanted to be closer to him, if only to figure out what it was.

"Ah, 'y flatterin' meh, _chere_," Remy whispered through the crack.

"How did yah know what ah was thinkin'?" she asked, fascinated at the new discoveries this night had brought her. She was thankful for them all—except that they had come in a prison—but mostly for this one, though she had no idea why. He was making her feel all sorts of things, at least, his voice was, and none of them were very appropriate for a young widow.

"'Dat's Remy's t'ing. He can feel what 'y feel. 'Y're…curious, an' charmed, an'…well, 'y're not havin' very ladylike feelin's," he said, his voice sending shivers down her spine.

"Is that all yah can do?"

"_Non_. Remy ain't no one trick pony. Ah…we'll say "charge" t'ings. Ah can…make normal t'ings inta explosives."

"Then what are yah still doin' in here?" she asked, wondering if he might be her ticket out of here.

"'Dere's gloves strapped on mah hands. Ah'm not gonna blow mah hands off tah get outta here."

"Oh…rahght…Where are yah from? Yah have an accent…"

As she spoke, she slid her gloved fingers through the slot in the wall, and felt his warm fingers wrap around her own. A little shiver of pleasure shot through her at the tiny touch. She heard him gasp on the other side.

"Remy's from all ovah, _chere. _Let me tell yah 'bout it…"

The problem was, not matter how much she wanted to stay awake to hear Remy's story, or to tell him hers, the excitement and terror of the night had taken it's toll. She finally stopped to comprehend what was going on around her, and it hit her like a ton of bricks. Before Remy could tell her anything about himself, she was already asleep, her hand still entwined with his. Hours after she had fallen asleep, he still hadn't let go.

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**Author's Note: **So, there it is. I hope you enjoyed. Whatever your feelings, please just let me know, because I'm super nervous about this thing. Also, Matthew Hopkins is a real historical figure, but I am taking some liberties (obviously, since I didn't know the man.) Anyway, feedback, please, because y'all are super awesome like that.


	2. What You Have to Do to Survive

**Author's Note: **Thank you so much to everyone for your feedback and support. It really was awesome. Now I just hope that I can live up to it. So, here is chapter two for your reading pleasure.  


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The first thing she noticed upon waking was that she was freezing and sore all over. Stone and hay weren't the most comfortable of accommodations, and wooden walls were did not a good pillow make. However, strangely accented mysterious strangers…unfortunately, his voice had lulled her right off to sleep. She hoped that he didn't take offense; she really had wanted to hear his story, but her circumstances exhausted her. She pulled her cloak tighter, trying to get warm, only to discover that one of her hands was still occupied.

"Did 'y sleep, alrigh', _chere_?" Remy asked through the whole in the wall, his hand tightening around her smaller one.

"Ah wouldn't call it that, no. Ah hurt all ovah," she answered, pressing her ear closer to the wall, not wanting to miss anything that he had to say.

"'Dat's 'de least o' our problems today. Rumor has it, 'de Witch-Finder General gonna be in town."

"How d'yah know?" He could feel the muscles of her hand tense, and anxiety was pouring off her in waves. He had known the minute she woke up, because her emotional state had immediately leapt from sleepy contentment to anxiety. Though it was hard to imagine anyone being content in this place, somehow, she was managing it. It was probably because she had been asleep, and anything is possible in dreams.

"'De guards don' really try to hide it from us. 'Dey wan' us tah be 'fraid," Remy said, keeping his voice low.

"Rahght…what do yah know about this 'Witch-Hunter General?' Jean seemed…afraid when she talked 'bout him."

"He…from what Remy's heard, Jean should be 'fraid o' him. He's found more witches 'dan anyone else. O' course, he looks harder 'dan anyone else, too. He also gets more confessions 'dan anyone else."

In a rather unladylike fashion, she swore violently under her breath. Not so quietly that he couldn't hear her, though. She thought she heard him chuckle, and her suspicions were confirmed as he began laughing aloud at her. Not amused, she pouted—not that it did any good, he couldn't see her—and pulled her hand from his grip. In the process, her glove slid off her hand.

"It's not funny," she said, her voice sullen. "We're gonna _die. _ Ah don' really think that's funny."

"Ah'm laughing at 'y're swearin', _chere. _Not so ladylike, after all," he answered. "Remy shoulda known since 'y fell asleep durin' his lahfe story."

Guilt washed over her. She really hadn't meant to fall asleep while he was talking to her, but she couldn't help it. It had been the wee hours of the morning, she was exhausted, and the lilt of his voice just lulled her right to sleep. She really didn't think it was fair of him to blame her for that. If his voice weren't so lovely, she probably wouldn't have fallen asleep. She really was interested in knowing where this red-eyed stranger came from. However, she was also currently terrified about her impending meeting with the Witch-Finder General, and that was not making things any easier.

"Ah didn't mean tah fall asleep," she said, her guilt creeping into her voice. "Ah was just so tired…"

"Remy knows 'dat. Don' worry 'bout it. Lahke he said, 'dere other t'ings tah worry 'bout today."

She was torn. Part of her wanted to know what she was going to be facing when this guy decided that it was time to "examine" and "question" her. Another part of her—the louder, more insistent part of her—wanted to be distracted from the whole situation. She wanted to lose herself in something that did not involve the possibility of blood, "questioning," and death. New doors were being opened to her at an alarming rate. As of yesterday, she was just a girl, unsure of how she felt about her marriage. Now, she was being accused of witchcraft and facing a highly uncertain future. She wasn't really sure that she liked these new doors that were opening for her.

"_Chere, _'dere ain't not'in tah be 'fraid of 'bout 'y're powers. It's not y're fault. 'Y didn' know. Now, 'y just gotta learn tah control it."

"If Ah get the chance," she muttered under her breath.

"'Y'll get 'de chance. We'll find some way outta here," he whispered back to her, taking her hand in his once again. She immediately pulled away, realizing that her hand was ungloved. "Here," he said, holding the glove open through the whole in the wall. She slid her hand into it and let him take her hand in his. He ran his thumb across the back of her knuckles comfortingly and she shivered.

"Ah'm…Ah don't know what's gonna happen…Ah need tah know _somethin'_," she said, the desperation leaking into her voice.

"All o' us are in 'da same situation, an' we're gonna find a way out. 'Y can know 'dat. 'Y not alone."

"'Y won't leave me alone?" she asked.

"Not if Remy can help it." He squeezed her hand comfortingly and she could feel the brush of his lips on the back of her hand. Again, she shivered, and it wasn't from the cold. Anna Marie heard Remy gasp on the other side of the wall. It wasn't a gasp of pain, she realized, and she felt the rush of blood to her face.

Trying to distract herself from her very unladylike feelings, she said, "Tell meh about the Witch-Finder Gen'ral. Do yah know his…methods?"

"From what Remy heard, he don' let 'y get any sleep. It makes 'y confess easier. If 'y still don' confess, he uses tests…pokes 'y—"

"Torture is outlawed in England," she protested.

"Just 'cause it's outlawed don' mean 'dey don' do it. Besides, he mostly comes up with nonsense 'bout 'da "Devil's mark," Remy answered.

"Devil's mark?"

"A mole o' a sore. If he decides 'y're a witch, he'll find 'da evidence."

"So…we're all gonna die."

"_Non, chere. _ Remy an' Jean ain't gonna let 'dat happen. 'Y not gonna give up, either."

"What about Jean's husband?"

"Dere's was a love match. She'll fight for 'im." It lay unspoken between them that if he died, she was a wild card. Loneliness washed over Anna Marie as she realized that her dead husband never would have fought for her. She was convenient for him and for her father, nothing more. There was no one to fight for her but her.

"So…we just sit and wait for him?" she asked.

"_Non, cherie—"_

"Can yah stop calling meh that? What does that even mean?" Her annoyance cut through the fear in her voice.

"What should Ah call 'y then?"

"Marie. Mah name's Anna Marie, but Ah hate the double name. Mah parents loved it, but…it doesn't feel quite rahght."

"Unladylike feelin's, not usin' 'y Christian name…Aren't 'y the little rogue," he teased, though there was a tension underlying his voice. It was a double edged sword: that ridiculous teasing that sent shivers down her spine, and then the tension of knowing that shortly, one of them was going to be taken away for questioning.

"Well, we see how well bein' a rogue went for meh."

"Ah, _chere—_"

"Marie," she corrected.

"Marie 'da rogue…lahfe's more excitin' fo' us," he whispered, kissing her palm. "We get tah see 'da different side o' lahfe."

"Lahfe in prison, yah mean tah say?"

"'Y've seen more o' 'da world 'dan a lot o' 'de girls 'y knew back home. Ah've seen more o' 'de world 'dan most. Paris, London, San Doming…Remy's seen it all."

"How?" she asked.

"Ah was born in Marsailles…'de Diable Blanc…'de white devil child wid' 'da red eyes. My _mère _sold meh tah 'da circus. Fit in rahght nicely 'dere. Ah traveled, picked up bits o' English, mostly in San Doming—"

"The slave trading island?"

"'Dat's 'da one. Remy didn' know 'dat 'da ship was goin' 'dere. Ah thought it was goin' back tah London. Ah bounced around 'de continent wid' 'de circus a bit more. Learned a few tricks—"

"Lahke?"

"Pickpocketin'—"

"Yah're a thief? No wonder yah're in jail!"

"Shhh, don' shout, _cherie._ Sometimes 'y gotta do what 'y gotta do tah survive. Just lahke what we gonna do now. When he takes 'y—cause he will—'y can't confess. 'Y gotta hang on 'til we t'ink o' a plan tah get us outta here. We'll find one."

She leaned heavily on the wall, wishing that it was him. She had been in prison for less than twenty-four hours and already it seemed that she had been there for ages. She had been speaking to him for only a few of those hours, but it seemed that he understood her completely. Never before had she hated an inanimate object so much before. Damn walls.

"Rahght. Hang on," she muttered. Suddenly, he let go of her hand, and the empty feeling was immediately felt. It was like a part of her was missing. She wanted to touch him so badly. It was almost more of a need than a want. "Remy? What's goin' on?"

"Shh, _chere, _someone's comin'."

She immediately fell silent and heard the clicking of boot heels on the floor outside her cell. Pulling her hand back through the wall, she quickly covered the whole with a pile of hay and lay in it, as if she had been asleep. Of course, only someone who had spent the night on such a bed would know that it was impossible, but it was all she had to work with.

There was the sound of a dull thud as something hit the floor outside her door. In her cell, Jean was pounding on the door, calling someone's name. Marie heard the sound of a key in the door and tensed, waiting. The door creaked open to reveal three people standing in the doorway. Well, so say that one was standing would be a gross overstatement. One man was being supported by two on either side, his feet scraping against the floor. If he had been standing up straight, he would have been a tall, well-built man. Slouched over, his hair hanging in his face, he looked smaller and defeated. The set of his mouth, however, told her otherwise.

This was a man who was determined to survive. Like Remy, she realized, this man was a survivor. This was the kind of person she was going to have to be if she was going to live through the chaos that was sure to come. She had to toughen up, leave the old Marie behind, and become someone strong enough to survive. She was damn well determined that she was not going to die in the filth of a dank, disgusting prison.

The two guards threw their victim—whom could only be Scott Summers, from the way Jean was yelling his name—to the cold hard floor, where he landed with another thud. The shorter one, the one who had been there last night, motioned for her with a grunt. She rose to her feet, but didn't move. Instead of asking for her to come, he grabbed her by the arm, tossed her over his shoulder, and hauled her away down the hall.

If she had thought that her situation could get no worse, she was wrong. The further they went into the prison, the more disgusting and dank it got. At least in her cell, there weren't any rats. So far, she had seen six at least, and she had stopped counting some time ago. She kicked and hit and spit, but it all seemed to do no good against a man that was apparently indestructible. Her struggles didn't phase him one bit.

He took her to a small room with stone walls. In the room, there were several torches, a small table and two chairs. Sitting in one of the chairs was a tall man, whose legs looked unproportionately long next to his incredibly short torso. His head was also shaped strangely like a potato. It was hard to be intimidated by a man that looked like he had a potato on his shoulders, but then she remembered all that Remy had told her.

"Ah, yes, Lady Robbinson. Please have a seat," he said, gesturing to the other chair. With a dismissive wave, the short guard left the room with a growl. She sat slowly, eyeing him warily, unsure of what exactly to think. "Sit down, sit down. There really is no need to be frightened. I'm sure all of this is just a misunderstanding. I am Matthew Hopkins, the Witch-Finder General."

She was definitely sure that she didn't know what was going on, and that it was probably best just to hold her tongue and not say a single thing at all. After all, if she didn't speak, there was no way that she could ever let the whole story come spilling out of her mouth, as it was so want to do. If she didn't speak, she couldn't accidentally confess and say that she really hadn't meant to drain the life out of her husband on what was supposed to be her first night of wedded bliss. No, silence was definitely her best option.

"I've gotten statements from the servants in your household, Lady Robbinson, who claim that you drained the life out of your husband. Now, we all know how superstitious they can be. What I need you to do is tell me what happened, sign this piece of paper, and then we can get all of his unpleasantness behind us," he said, his voice silky and smooth. He wasn't an attractive man, but if she hadn't known about his reputation and what he could—and probably would—do to her, his voice would have made him so. She sat in stony silence, staring at the table top.

"Lady Robbinson, really, if you don't confess the truth of it to me, I cannot help you." Still, she remained silent, focusing on what Remy had told her. She held the feeling of his larger hands around her small one in the forefront of her mind. His voice echoed through her thoughts.

_Sometimes 'y gotta do what 'y gotta do tah survive…_

She thought of Jean, who was staying strong and smart through it all, despite having her husband torn from her. She thought of Scott Summers, to whom she had never spoken, but held in high regard. They were all survivors, and she was going to join their ranks. She was going to stand firm and stay silent.

"Lady Robbinson?" The way he kept saying her name was beginning to drive her mad. She hated that name. It just didn't suit her, just like Anna Marie didn't, either. Anna Marie Robbinson…no, that was definitely wrong, as was the way he was saying it. He was so condescending, like she didn't know what was going on, though she was quickly beginning to figure it out. He thought it would be all too easy to trick a confession out of her. No, it wouldn't be.

"Lady Robbinson?" When she remained silent, he tried again. "Lady Robbinson? Really, as Witch-Finder General, I know all the signs of a witch, and you do not appear to be one. So, just tell me what happened so I can let you go." When she was silent once more, he began to lose his temper. "Lady Robinson!"

"That's not mah name!" she shouted back at him, finally having enough of him and his ridiculously sad attempt at trickery. He smiled, and what was so scary about it, was that it was a real smile. It was twisted and horrific, but it reached all the way to his eyes.

"Then tell me, what is your name?" he asked, his voice full of mocking. Losing her temper, she spat in his face defiantly.

"Rogue."

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**Author's Note: **So, there it is. Chapter two. Please let me know what you think, because I'm always trying to improve my writing. Also, reviews are super super super awesome, and so are you guys for reading my story...super awesome people leave super awesome reviews...I'm like a kid on crack right now and I really don't know why. Anyway, please let me know what you think, because I'm still a bit nervous about this. =)


	3. It's Good for the Soul

**Author's Note: **So, definitely a huge thank-you to everyone who read/reviewed/alerted/favorite/supported me in general. The support is amazing. Thanks. I also want to apologize for taking so long with this chapter. Work caught up with me. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.  


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For a long moment, Hopkins was silent. He just sat there and studied her as if he wasn't entirely sure what to make of her. He had been expecting a scared young woman far from home. She should be disoriented, afraid and cowering. She should be someone that he could get an easy confession out of. Instead, she was putting up a fight; she was angry and feisty. Instead of seeing the sting of defeat in her eyes, he saw them blazing with…determination. This was definitely not what he wanted. However, there were ways to take care of that, and he had time.

"Rogue? That doesn't seem like the greatest of names. After all, a rogue is a renegade, a criminal. Is that an admission of guilt?" he asked, keeping his voice light to cover his annoyance.

"Hardly. Ah didn't do anything wrong," she answered, her voice strong. Her anger gave her strength and helped her hide her fear. She was terrified, but determined not to let him see it—at least, not if she could help it. Survival was key. _Remember, Ah gotta hold on. Just hold on…_

"Of course you didn't. Your husband just happened to be killed while you were alone with him in your bedroom with no signs of violence and you expect us to believe that you didn't use witchcraft?"

"Sometahmes it's just a person's tahme tah go," she said, unable to think of something witty to say, especially since she was trying not to think about what was going to happen to her. "Wish it was yahrs. But then, if wishes were horses—"

"We would need wider streets. What interesting expressions you use, Rogue. I've never heard a civilized, Christian woman use them—"

"Ah am a good, Christian woman, Mr. Hopkins—"

"A good Christian woman would not kill her husband!"

"And a good, _Christian _man wouldn't judge people. Last tahme Ah checked, that was for the Lord, and yah definitely ain't Him," she snapped.

Losing his patience, Hopkins smacked her across the face with a gloved hand, and she felt the sting. She touched her hand to her face and felt the blood from her split lip. One glance at his face told her that if he still had any control of himself, it wasn't going to last very long if she kept up her current routine. Her heart was racing, fear gnawing in her stomach. The last thing she wanted was for him to accidentally kill her while trying to get a confession.

"I know you killed your husband. Tell me how you did it!"

She caught herself before she could say "Ah didn't mean tah." Her mouth was open, ready to spill everything before she snapped it shut and bit her lip. To try to calm herself, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Ah didn't do anything," she said, more calmly than she felt.

"Rogue," he said, his tone mocking and angry. "Do you know how it feels to go without sleep twenty-four hours?"

"Almost. Ah can't say that stone and straw lulled meh tah sleep last nahght."

"You're going to find that sleep is a good deal more important than you ever thought it was. I find that going a day without sleep does a lot to loosen the tongue," he said.

He left the confession and quill on the table before walking out the door. Replacing Hopkins was the guard that brought her in earlier. For the first time, she got a chance to study him closely. He was short, but stocky. Despite his long sleeves and layers of clothing, she could still tell that his bulk was muscle, not fat.

"Ah don't suppose yah're gonna let meh get any sleep, are yah?" she said lightly. He responded by crossing his arms and grunting. She looked around the room for any sort of escape route, but the only one was being blocked by the guard, who knew exactly what she was doing.

"Don't try to escape. It's useless," he growled at her. She occupied herself for a few moments by doing little things to annoy him. Tapping on the table, whistling a jaunty tune, scraping the quill across the tabletop. When he finally slammed his fist onto the table and yelled at her to stop, she decided that it was in her best interests to do so.

With no distractions to be had, she sat at the table and studied the confession before her. Phrases that stood out were "fraternization with Lucifer, the Devil," "disregard for human life," and her favorite "willing to repent her unholy existence and return to Christ Jesus."

After running out of things to study, time became fluid and she wasn't sure how much had passed. Every time she was about to drift off to sleep, the stocky guard would bang on the table or kick her chair. She tried to keep track of how many times he work her, but she lost count after the first few times. Her head felt so heavy, and she just wanted to set it down for a few minutes…but no, the welcome respite of sleep was denied to her.

Instead, she sat there, trying to think of anything other than a possible hanging. She remembered what Remy had said about Hopkin's methods, and she knew what was coming. An examination to look for "the Devil's mark." She had never seen a hanging before—or a witch trial for that matter—but she had the distinct impression that whether she had a mark or not, the noose awaited her.

_Yes, and it should. You sucked the life out of me, you heartless witch. You took my life and you destroyed it. I had everything and thanks to you, I don't have a damn thing anymore. You should be destroyed. It's a pity that they don't burn them anymore…_

The sudden intrusion in her head caught her off guard and she couldn't stop herself from clenching her eyes shut and crying out in pain. As her husband's voice echoed in her mind, she could feel the fabric of her mind ripping into thousands of pieces. He was bitter and angry, and wanted to cause her pain…He was successful, too.

Images were flashing through her mind of her wedding night, only this time, she was looking at it from his perspective, feeling what he was feeling. She felt his desire for…her dowry. His shock at their first touch…his anger as he felt his life draining away. Everything, it was all in her head and it was tearing her apart. She had never felt such pain in her entire life. She fell out of her chair and onto the floor, writhing about, trying anything to stop the pain. Her screams echoed off the wall, almost unbearably loud.

"Please! Stop!" she shrieked, clutching at her temples. "Ah'm sorry! Ah didn't mean…Please!"

Just when she thought that the pain would fade, there was more. The remnants of her husband were so _angry _and she couldn't make it stop. She tried to cling to Remy's words about survival. _Sometimes 'y gotta do what 'y gotta do tah survive. _ Survive. She thought of Remy's red eyes and tried to concentrate on them. She tried to push her husband away, just as she had on their wedding night, and the pain faded just a bit. Instead, she replaced them with the calming memory of falling asleep holding Remy's hand.

When she opened her eyes, she saw the disgusting filth that covered the beams over her head. Her guard was still standing in the same place he was before, looking completely unphased at the display before him. She was trying to catch her breath again and ignore the pain. She was still in the same dirty place that she was before, but in more pain, and with less sleep. Outlook was definitely bleak.

Some of the filth from the ceiling fell into her hair, so she sat up and tiredly wiped it away. Her hair was matted and disgusting and she tried to pull it out of her face. While doing so, she noticed a white hair. After further study, she noticed that it just wasn't one or two strands of hair that were white. The entire front of her head was a shock of white hair. She had heard of such things happening before when people were under great stress, but she had never believed them. Until now.

"Nice hair…Stripes," the guard said derisively. "Clean yourself up. The Witch-Finder General will be back shortly to conduct your examination…"

_Examination? Is that what they're calling it now? Let's see if you kill this one, too, or maybe you just reserve that for people who have everything left to lose, you conniving little bitch…_

The second his voice returned, she was flat on her back once more, hands over her face, trying to block him out. It was impossible. Everything hurt so much, and there were so many images. Not just of her, but of him. Happy times, sad times…everything was there, and it was going through her mind far too quickly. It was tearing her apart. Again, she screamed, trying anything to escape the pain.

"Oh Gawd! Please! Please make it stop…"

"I wouldn't expect help from on high if I were you," Hopkins said from where he stood in the doorway. Rogue was barely able to push her eyes open to look at him before she was seeing more memories that weren't hers. Again, she tried to remember something happy—something of _hers_—to push Coty out of her mind.

_Aren't 'y 'da little rogue? _ This time it was the memory of Remy's teasing her, despite the fact that they had been in prison. They were in a life or death situation, and he was still managing to tease her, to try to distract her. Yes, that was happy enough to push Coty away. To replace her husband's cold hands with Remy's warmer, gentler ones.

"Remy…" She hadn't meant to say his name aloud. It just slipped out.

"Remy? The other prisoner? Did you practice black magic with him?" Hopkins asked. He was like a shark that smelled blood, about to go into a frenzy. He looked excited, like there was a breakthrough of some sort.

"No, Ah didn't. Ah don't practice black magic. Ah am a good, Christian woman," she snapped at him, though more out of pain than anything else.

"How do you know him? Had you met him before?"

"Not until yah threw meh in jail!" The minute the words were out of her mouth, she knew that she had made a mistake. For one, they would now find out about the hole in the wall between their cells. That, or they may see it as evidence of witchcraft for knowing someone she'd never met. Secondly, Coty's voice was back in her mind, yelling that she deserved to be in prison. But this time, there was no pain with it, just his angry voice.

"So, why are you calling for a man you don't know?" Hopkins asked. Rogue bit her tongue, determined not to get herself in any further trouble. Not to mention Remy. Guilt washed over her. No matter what Remy did, she had probably just condemned him with her words. She hoped not, though. He was a good man, and she didn't want another death on her conscience. When she remained silent, he asked again. "Answer me, _Rogue._"

"Why? Yah've already tried and convicted meh, no mattah what Ah say."

"Yes, but, my dear, confession is good for the soul."

"Then Ah think yah had better start, because yahr soul needs it more than mahne."

She was rewarded for her remark by a sharp slap to the face. "I don't need your confession. Lucifer has chosen to mark his faithful servant. How funny that he should do so by turning your hair white. That's enough for me to hang you, Rogue. Why hold out?" Hopkins asked, his voice surprisingly calm. "Mr. Logan, please go fetch my _assistant_." The guard nodded gruffly and disappeared from the room.

"If yah don't need mah confession, why are yah pushin' so hard for it?" Rogue asked, though not really out of curiosity.

"You think that you're so strong and so tough. I've seen your type before. Lord Summers was like that. But I have my ways, and always, _always, _they confess. There is a moment of peace for them, just as they take the quill to sign the paper. They stop fighting, see the error of their ways, and just…let go. It's a beautiful moment," he answered, his expression dreamy. Rogue felt her stomach churn.

There was a sharp knock at the door, as the guard reappeared with Hopkin's assistant, who stood in the shadows. Hopkins allowed the man in, and said to Logan, "Your presence won't be necessary. You should wait outside." Logan nodded mindlessly, his expression vacant and stepped outside.

"Thank you for coming, sir," Hopkins said to his "assistant." Rogue still couldn't see his face, but he was tall and thin. "Miss…Rogue is being a bit difficult. I thought that perhaps you could…persuade her to see the light." The assistant laughed—a laugh more frightening than Hopkins' had been—and, with a nod, stepped into the light.

Rogue gasped.

* * *

Remy was pacing in his cell, worrying. He wouldn't have been quite so worried if it weren't for the piece of paper that had been nailed to the door of Scott Summers' cell. Remy hadn't really been paying attention the whole time that it was being read to them—he was too busy trying to think of some way to pick his lock from the inside—but he had caught enough to know that Summers hand confessed. What worried him even more than that, though, was Summers' vehement denial of it.

Of course, the Witch-Finder General didn't need a confession. Confessions were a luxury, not a requirement. There were plenty of cases in the past where witches had been hanged or jailed without one. And from what he had heard about Hopkins' methods, there really was no shame in confessing—not after twenty-four hours without sleep when you're going to be hanged anyway. What was the point in holding out?

But whatever the reason, Scott Summers was denying that the ever signed a confession. The trouble with that was the fact that the guard clearly had a signed statement from Lord Scott Summers saying that he "practiced Lucifer's magic, and done his bidding." His empathic ability was telling him that Scott honestly though he was telling the truth, too. So what was going on?

It might have been a ruse by Hopkins to break Jean. Even a blind man could see that it was impossible to have Scott without Jean, and vice versa. Hopkins must think that if Scott confessed, Jean would follow suit. He obviously hadn't considered that the opposite could happen. Scott's apparent confession had only strengthened Jean's resolve not to do the same. Remy could feel it.

He could also feel Marie's emotions, even though she was all the way down in the dungeons. Early on in her interrogation—or at least that's what he assumed was going on down there—she had been feeling feisty and rebellious, despite—or perhaps because of—her fear. That had made him smile a bit. Not only was feistiness an attractive trait, but it also gave him hope that whatever Hopkins was doing to her, she was standing firm. He had been quite sure that no matter what, they were not going to bring her back to the cellblock with a confession.

But then he had started feeling pain, both physical and emotional. It was sharp, and hard, and he could hear her screams, despite the fact that she was several floors below him. He wasn't sure what they could be doing to cause that kind of emotional distress, but her pain had brought him to his knees. Her pain had brought tears to his eyes. How she could go from rebellious to agony in a split second, he had no idea, but it was scaring him.

And what had made matters worse, was that after a short while, he couldn't even feel her pain anymore. He couldn't feel a thing. There was nothing for him to pick up on—not from her. There was no rebellion, no pain, no fear. There was nothing. He had never heard of Hopkins killing anyone in an interrogation, but after the pain she had been feeling earlier, he was hoping like hell that wasn't what had happened.

She was a good woman. She didn't deserve what was happening to her right now, whatever that was. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with a gift—maybe curse was a better word—that no one understood. None of them did—except maybe him. She couldn't touch anyone, and for a short period in his life, he hadn't been able to either. When his power had first manifested, it was so strong…At first he was charging everything he touched, whether on purpose or not. He had only been able to control it with help from a witch-doctor in the West Indies. Not to mention his eyes. Those had always driven people away. After all, who could love a red-eyed devil?

He believed that she could. Marie could love him, if they survived this. No, when they survived this. He had to believe that they could survive this. Jean, Scott, and himself had been plotting far too long for them not to escape. Marie was strong and feisty, and more than that, she wasn't afraid of him. She had been thrown into a situation that would scare the bravest of men, and she hadn't been afraid of his red eyes. Instead, she had been fascinated.

He was pulled from his thoughts by strong feelings of disorientation and pain coming from Marie. While he wasn't happy at all about the pain, he was grateful that she was feeling anything at all. It meant she was alive, and alive was definitely a good thing. Where there is life—even the faintest spark—there is hope.

Remy could hear the shuffle of the guards as they moved Scott into another cell. There was a thud as Marie was dropped into the cell next to his. Moving as quietly as he could, he crept back to the corner of his cell, to where the hole was. Peeping through it, he saw her lying on the floor, moaning in pain, with a shock of white in the front of her hair. He swore under his breath. That would be all the proof that Hopkins needed to convict her. That shock of hair would be considered "the Devil's mark," just as his red eyes had always been. It seemed that every second, time was being taken from them. Scott's confession, Marie's hair, his eyes…they were all adding up against them, making the clock tick just a little bit louder and faster than before.

"Listen up ladies and gents," the guard said, his low-pitched voice echoing outside Remy's door. "I have another announcement to read."

"I, the undersigned, understand that I have been charged with the crime of murder and witchcraft, both of which are punishable by death under British law. I admit that I have committed these crimes. I asked Lucifer, the devil, to be my master so that I might have the power to kill an unwanted husband. Because I was his faithful servant, he granted me that wish, and then laid hands on me and marked me as his own. I know that this is a crime against the crown, but I cannot be sorry for it, and I will not repent. Death would be a better fate than the betrayal of my master. Signed, Rogue, formerly known as Lady Anna Marie Robbinson."

Remy stiffened upon hearing those words. Not just with shock at the confession, but because he was feeling the shock from three other people. Three—Jean, Scott, and Marie. Marie herself was shocked about her confession. She pulled herself off the floor and scrambled back to the hole in the wall between their cells, her own confusion written all over her face.

"It wasn't meh, Remy. That wasn't meh," she whispered.

"'Da knew name, _chere_, o' 'da confession? Though, 'da name does suit 'y," he asked, and in perfect seriousness. It was fitting. Rogue.

"The confession. Remy, it wasn't meh. Ah didn' confess. Ah didn't write that, or sign it."

Nerves were building in Remy's stomach. Scott and Rogue both confessed and didn't have a damn clue about it. Whatever the hell was going on, Remy didn't like. Not one bit.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, there it is. Chapter three. I hope it was worth the wait. Please review. Any kind of feedback at all makes my day.


	4. Blank Spots

**Author's Note: **A huge thank you to everyone who read/reviewed/favorited/alerted/supported in general. Y'all are amazing.  


* * *

Remy's head was pounding, his stomach churning. Generally empathic powers made his life a little bit easier. He used them to understand how people were responding to him. Should he turn on the charm, push a little more, back off? It had helped him scam many a person, and it had also helped him get many a woman into bed. Not that he actually needed help for that. Many of them were attracted to the danger element. They were slightly afraid, but wanted the thrill. He hadn't felt that fear when Marie—Rogue, he reminded himself—caught sight of his red eyes.

While she wasn't afraid of him, Rogue was definitely afraid in general. Her fear and panic were so strong that he couldn't block them out, try as he might. He pushed his hands through the whole in the wall, reaching for her, trying to touch her, to calm her, to comfort her. She gripped his hands tightly, and for a moment he was afraid that she might break his fingers. Then he realized that if breaking his fingers calmed her enough to talk to him coherently, it would probably be worth it. As it was, he was fighting back the urge to vomit as her fear continued to overwhelm him.

"Ah didn'…Ah don' remember signin' anythang…Ah'm sorry. Ah'm so sorry. Ah didn' mean tah—"

"Shhh, _cherie. _ Remy knows 'y didn' mean tah. Somet'in is goin' on here…Some'in we're missin'. 'Dis ain't 'y fault. 'Y know 'dat," he said, stroking her hands comfortingly. He had hoped to feel some of her fear easing away, but he didn't. Instead, it got worse. Unable to stop himself, he bent over and emptied his stomach onto the already disgusting floor of the prison. Upon hearing his retching, she fell silent.

"Remy…are yah alrahght?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Yes, _chere…_Remy's alrigh'. 'Y just…'y gotta calm down. Ah can feel 'y're fear, and it's…it's overwhelmin'. Ah can' block it out…"

"Ah made yah sick?"

"_Non, _'y could never make meh sick."

"Then what was that?" she asked pointedly. Instead of the fear, now he was feeling her guilt.

"Ah've been in prison fo' over a week…Bread an' water ain't really ideal food. 'Specially not wid' mites in it," he answered, hoping that would satisfy her. It did, but she was still feeling guilty. Despite his reassurances, she drew two deep breaths and tried to get some of her fear under control.

"Ah didn'…Remy, Ah don' remember confessin'. Ah didn', Ah swear."

"Ah know," he answered, his velvet voice soothing her nerves. "We'll figure out what's goin' on."

"What does it mattah now? Ah confessed, and Ah managed to bring yah down with meh."

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Ah remember…Ah was so tired an' Ah wanted tah sleep, but Ah couldn'. When Hopkins came back in, he said somethin', and then Coty's voice was in mah head, and it _hurt…_Ah felt…Ah felt lahke mah mind was tearin', lahke he could rip it out…and Ah just screamed an' screamed…Ah needed somethin' tah hold on tah, and it was yah. Ah held on tah the memories that Ah had of yah. Ah didn' mean tah say yahr name, it just slipped out, and now Hopkins thinks that we practiced magic tagether. Ah'm sorry," she said. Normally, her voice was slower, more relaxed. Now, her words came pouring out of her mouth, blurring together in the process.

It took Remy a minute to process everything that she was telling him. Then he understood: she felt guilty because she believed that she had pulled him down with her. She believed that his death would be her fault, and the guilt about it was eating away at her. There was something more beneath her guilt, though. A softness…for him. That was what was causing her guilt. She wouldn't have felt so guilty if she didn't feel something for him.

"Rogue," he whispered, his voice gentle. "Hopkins already decided tah hang us. With o' without a confession. It don' mattah what 'y said. He's gonna do whateva he wants."

"Ah just kept hopin' that if Ah didn' say anythang, he couldn't. But the pain was so bad…Ah—"

"Ah know, _chere. _An' 'den Hopkins told 'y 'dat 'de white in 'y hair was 'de mark o' 'de devil," Remy said.

"Yes," she answered simply.

"Rogue…why did 'y hold on tah meh? When 'y were in pain…why Remy?" he asked hesitantly. She was silent for a long time before she answered.

"Yah're the only the only brahght spot in this whole thang. Ah can't be tah unhappy when Ah think 'bout yah. Yah understand…yah're not afraid of meh. When most people woulda pulled away, yah held mah hand. That's the only reason Ah slept that nahght. Ah can't…Ah can't be completely mis'rable because yah're here," she said.

He had wished before now that he could see her face, but now, he was practically dying to see her. She had opened herself up to him; she had let him see some of the vulnerability that she had been so desperately trying to hide. If he could see her face, he would die a happy man.

"Remy was mis'rable 'til 'y came along. 'Y give meh hope," he whispered, bringing her hand to his lips. She pressed herself against the wall, wishing that she could be closer, cursing the wall that separated them. These feelings were new to her. Her mother had told her that she would grow to love her husband, and the maids had told her that she would one day understand what it was to want a man, but with Coty she had felt only dread.

_You dreaded our wedding night, you little bitch, and that's why you decided to kill me. Couldn't handle a real man, could you…_

Remy felt her hand tighten around his again as pain tore through her again. She collapsed against the wall, and instinctively tried to pull her hand from Remy's. Instead of letting her go, he hung on, even as she shrieked and writhed in pain. Very carefully, so as not to hurt her, he shook her arm, trying to get her attention.

"Rogue? Rogue?" When she still didn't answer, he gave her arm a good hard jerk. "_Cherie?"_

"Remy, it hurts." He could practically hear the tears in her voice. He felt the pain—the emotional pain—that she was feeling, and tried as best he could to soothe her. She was lying on the floor, gasping, her head level with the whole in the wall. He slid his hands through the whole and stroked her hair, trying to calm her.

"It's alrahght. Remember, happy t'ings. T'ink of happy t'ings. Lahke escapin'. 'Y and meh and Jean and Scott are gonna escape. It's alrahght, _chere. _It's alrahght." He kept repeating that over and over, hoping that if he said it enough times, it might come true. He kept stroking her hair, as if he could chase Coty from her head with his presence. After several minutes, Coty was gone and the pain faded.

"'Y alrahght?" Remy asked hesitantly.

"Ah'll be fahne. Ah don't think Ah'll ever get used tah havin' him in mah head," she answered weakly.

"'Y'll learn tah block 'im out. It'll jus' take some tahme, 'dat's all."

"If we even get any tahme. Hopkins is lookin' tah hang us all," she said.

"_Non. _ Ah'm not gonna let 'dat happen. We'll escape an' go somewhere else. Back tah 'da colonies…somewhere. Ah'm not gonna let anyt'in' happen tah yah."

"There's not much yah can do. Not when Ah'm losin' tahme like that. If Ah can't remember confessin', what else can he make meh do. Or yah?"

"But now, y're 'yself again. As long as Ah have power over mahself, Ah won' let 'im hang us," Remy said

"Yah got any sort of plan, or are yah just sayin' that tah calm meh down?"

"Between 'da four o' us, we've got Jean who can read t'oughts an' move things wid' her mind, 'y who can drain folk wid' a touch, an' meh an' Scott, who can blow t'ings up. We can get outta here, we just gotta try."

"And if we all die in the process?"

"Well, we won' get hanged."

For the first time since she'd been arrested, she couldn't help but laugh. She was still afraid, and she still didn't want to die, but he was right. If they fought back and were killed trying to escape, they couldn't be hanged. She stored that plan away in her head, just in case that is what it came to. She was determined to live, yes, but even more than that, she was determined that she would not be a public spectacle. The though of people watching in amusement while she strangled to death was not really something she aspired to in life. The very fact that she was contemplating her death sobered her.

"We need a plan. Ah'm not dyin' for public enjoyment," she whispered fiercely. She sat up and Remy felt a surge of admiration for this girl—no, woman. Her determination and will to live was like nothing he had ever seen before. Most women that he knew—Jean being the exception—would have given up in this situation. They would have laid back, accepted their fate, and begged Hopkins to show some mercy. But no, not Rogue.

"That's mah girl," he said under his breath to himself.

"Yahr girl?" Apparently, it was less to himself than he thought.

"If 'y'll have Remy—"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Yes?" There was no hiding the shock in his voice.

"Yes. Now make sure we survive long enough tah take care o' that."

* * *

Lady Jean Grey Summers was sitting in her cell, wishing that her husband were back with her. When he was in Rogue's cell, she could actually speak to him, hear his voice, hold his hand. Now, all she had was their mental connection, and while she was endlessly grateful for it, she wanted more. She wanted him back so that he could hold her in his arms, or so that he could rest his head against her breast and listen to her heartbeat as he had done so many times before. But he wasn't with her now, so she would have to make do. At least he was alive, she thought to herself.

In the cell next door, Rogue—as she had renamed herself—and Remy were trying to think of an escape plan. Escape was completely occupying Remy's mind. If they didn't escape, they would die, and that was something he definitely wasn't ready to do just yet. He had his reasons, reasons that Jean new she could just look into his head and see, but she also sensed the darkness that came with those reasons, and chose not to look any further into that corner of his mind. After all, the situation was dark enough as it was.

Rogue was definitely concerned about escaping, but she was also thinking over her confession. She was one hundred percent certain that she did not write or sign that confession, but it was in her hand writing, just as Scott's had been. When they brought Scott back to the cell block, he had just enough left in him to stagger to their whole in the wall, hear the confession read, say "Jean, I didn't…" before passing out. When he finally came to, he spent the whole time trying to remember every minute of his interrogation, a process that hadn't been easy for either of them. Watching what happened in Scott's mind was easier than being there, but as a wife and a lover, it was just as hard.

Now Rogue was doing the same thing Scott had done. She was reliving each minute of her interrogation that she could remember. Until she ran flat into a brick wall and couldn't remember a thing. The last thing she remembered was Hopkins telling her why he wanted every one of his victims to confess. Then things got a bit hazy, until it was all blank. Perhaps if she could walk around in Rogue's mind rather than just read the thoughts passing through it…

"Rogue!" she called, realizing that perhaps she had just struck gold—metaphorically, of course. If she could get inside the other woman's head, sift through everything, perhaps she could figure out what the hell was going on.

"What? Keep yahr voice down," Rogue answered. Mr. Logan—though he hardly deserved the title, as he had no manners at all—was the guard on duty and she sure as hell didn't want to be overheard.

"Come here," Jean whispered. "You have a blank spot in your memories. I can read your thoughts, walk in your mind. Let me see if I can get in there and find out what's going on."

"Do yah think yah can do that?" the other woman asked.

"Well, it can't hurt to try."

"Alrahght. What do Ah need tah do?"

"Give me your hands. Normally, I'd like to touch your face, but that isn't possible right now, so I'll just have to make do with your hands. Now, I want you to relax. You might be able to feel me inside your head. Now, take me to the beginning of your interrogation."

Rogue started thinking of the dark room with rats and grimy floors. Jean focused her energy on that image Rogue was holding in her mind, and suddenly, she was there. It was as if her mind was organized in wooden packing trunks. Each trunk contained a certain set of memories, ready to be pulled out and examined. The problem was, not all of them belonged to Rogue. Rogue's thoughts and memories were in mahogany boxes: warm and strong. They were organized in chronological order, in neat stacks.

But then there were someone else's thoughts, too. They were packed in black and battered-looking trunks, with rusty hinges. There was no rhyme or reason to the ordering of the trunks. They were just stacked every which way. Thinking that the key to Rogue's memory loss could lie within, she opened one of them. All she felt was anger and fear, and for a split second, overwhelming pain. Immediately, she slammed the trunk shut again, shying away from the taste that she just got. They were the memories that belonged to Coty.

Noting that the trunks had the capacity to be locked, Jean pulled a lock from off the floor and locked the trunk shut. For each and every one of Coty's trunks, she did the same thing, hoping to help her friend by keeping her late husband from interfering with her mind. He would stay locked away, just as he was supposed to be.

Having finished that task, she turned back to look at Rogue's neatly organized trunks, and she noticed that one was set apart from the others, back in the darkest corner of Rogue's mind. The trunk was tightly closed and locked with a heavy lock.

"That's what I'm looking for," she whispered. She dropped to her knees beside the lock and studied it. Of course there wasn't a key lying around, that would just be far too easy. It was a heavy lock, one that she wasn't going to be able to break with her hands. Instead, she focused her mind on it, trying to shift the cogs and wheels within the lock. Unfortunately, her knowledge of locks was extremely limited, and was not enough to enable her to open the chest.

Jean was trying to think of some other way to open the lock when the answer occurred to her. She didn't need to undo the lock when she could just undo the hinges. She focused her power on the hinges, forcing the nails to move and the lid of the box to creak open. It didn't want to open, but she continued to push until the lid was completely off.

Each of Rogue's missing memories came flooding out of the box. Hopkins' "friend" happened to be a tall fellow, who wore a dark woolen cloak. He sat down opposite Rogue, and for the first time, Jean could see his face. He had strange green lines running down the center of his face, with other lines branching off. He introduced himself as Mesmero.

Jean watched as he managed to put Rogue into some sort of hypnotic trance. He then instructed her to write and sign the confession, which she did without protest. After his work was done, he whispered to Rogue, "I want you to take all your memories of me and this confession and lock them away, forever, in the darkest corners of your mind. You will not remember them after you leave this room." With that, he stood and left the room. Shortly thereafter, Rogue was returned to her cell.

Jean closed the box of memories, but did not put the hinges back in place. It was something that Rogue needed to remember. She deserved to be able to remember. Everything made sense now: if she had the ability to read minds, it also made sense that someone else would have the ability to manipulate them. She was willing to bet that something similar had happened in Scott's mind. Hopkins had used this Mesmero to get the confessions. As long as he had them, no one was going to question his methods. She continued to think of that as she pulled out of Rogue's mind.

Rogue lay in the floor, staring at the ceiling in complete shock. Jean was struggling just to keep her eyes open. Walking in Rogue's mind had taken a lot out of her. Now that she had unlocked Rogue's memories, she could sleep. Rogue would remember, and tell Remy. She had done her job, and now she could sleep.

"Jean, are yah alrahght?"

"I unlocked the memories that you couldn't find, and locked up the other person in your head. It just took a lot out of me, that's all. You should tell Remy…and wake me up if you here anything about Scott," she replied. As soon as the words were out her mouth, she was sound asleep.

"He made me forget," Rogue said to Remy. "Mesmero made meh fo'get. What if that's what he's gonna do tah all o' us? What if he makes yah fo'get meh?"

Remy took her hand and placed it over his heart. "'Dere ain't nobody strong enough tah make Remy fo'get 'y, _chere._"

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**Author's Note: **So, there you have it. The next chapter. I hope you enjoyed it. If you didn't, let me know. If you did, let me know. Just...let me know.


	5. One Important Truth

**Author's note:** I am so so so sorry about the lack of updating. I was in the hospital for a bit with no computer. A huge thanks to all who read/reviewed/favorited/alerted/etc. I hope you enjoy this bit, and that it was worth the wait.  


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Jean awoke to the sound of the church bells striking the hour. One, two, three...They went on and on, finally striking midnight. She could hear Remy and Rogue talking in low voices next door. Their thoughts were floating in the air, and in her exhausted and groggy state, she was unable to keep them out of her own mind. The bond between them was strong, and sent pangs tearing through her. She had never wanted her husband more than she did in that moment. Especially considering the thoughts that were running through Hopkins' mind as he walked down the hall outside their cells.

_I'll just give the cells one more check for the night. It would be quite the disaster if they escaped before their hangings in the morning. The citizens would be heartbroken that they don't get their…entertainment… _

Jean fought to keep from gagging at the idea. Knowing that feigning innocence obviously wasn't going to save her life, she pulled herself off the floor and tapped on the wall separating her from Rogue. In the next cell over, Rogue pulled herself away from Remy just long enough to find out what exactly Jean was doing.

"What's goin' on?" she asked.

"We're out of time. The townspeople want a hanging, and they're getting one tomorrow morning."

The blood froze in Rogue's veins as she took in just what Jean had just told her. They didn't have enough time. Not enough time for anything. They needed more time to come up with a plan, and more, she needed more time with Remy. It was an injustice of the worst kind that she should lose him when she had just found him. She _needed _more time with him just like she needed to breathe.

"No," she whispered. "That's not enough time."

"Well it's all the time we have. Tell Remy."

"But—"

"Go tell him now!" Jean snapped.

"Tell Remy what?" he asked, his voice carrying across the width of Rogue's tiny cell.

"Hopkins is gonna hang us in the mornin'," Rogue whispered miserably. "We need more _time, _Remy."

Upon hearing Rogue's words, Remy's mind flew into overdrive. He understood that Rogue's words had more than one meaning. They needed more time to plan an escape, and he needed more time with her. A lifetime with her. But first thing's first…he couldn't live a life with her if they died tomorrow. And in order to plan for tomorrow, they needed everyone nearby—Scott included.

Overhearing his thoughts, Jean immediately stood and began banging on the door, shattering the deafening silence that had been in the prison moments before. Everyone jumped, taken completely by surprise.

"Hopkins! If you're going to execute us tomorrow, let me see my husband!" she shouted through the window of her cell. Hopkins froze and turned to face her. In the dim light, she could see his turn grey as he realized that she really could read his thoughts. "If you get my life, I want to see my husband!"

He was silent for a long time, trying to recover. His thoughts were a mess of shock and hatred. He really, genuinely did believe in his cause, which is what made him so dangerous. In his mind, he was guarding the English people from the terrors of Satan. Yes, he did take a cruel sense of pleasure in his work, but he also genuinely believed in it. In his mind, his beliefs justified using any means necessary to get a confession.

"And have you two plotting your escape," he answered after getting himself together. "I think not."

"You tortured my husband. You're going to kill us. If we really had the power to escape, do you really think that we would still be here?" she spat.

"I think you'll get no favors from me."

"I'll give you anything you want," she said, an edge of desperation in her voice. Not only did they need Scott to help plan their escape, she needed her husband with her.

"I won't take sexual favors from you," Hopkins answered, his voice full of disgust. Her mind was whirling, thinking of anything she could give him to get Scott back to her.

"I'll sign a confession. I'll confess to anything you want. Just let me see my husband. Please."

"You'll confess in exchange for your husband?" he asks. _I don't need a confession when I have her husband's and the other woman's…but it is one pound per confession…it couldn't hurt…._

"Yes. To anything you like."

Hopkins quickly motioned for a guard and whispered in his ear. Jean smiled tiredly, knowing that she had won the battle. And what was better, Hopkins didn't know that he had lost. She had to laugh at his thoughts.

_She wants one last night with her husband. Typical female frailty. It's probably better this way. Otherwise, she might be hysterical by morning, and I do not want to have to deal with all that…And the Rogue is practically broken…_

"I'll need you to sign this," Hopkins said, pushing a piece of parchment and a quill through the tiny window to her cell. She quickly read over the confession, which stated that she was "in congress with the Beast" and that she and her husband had "worshipped the unholy Lord, Satan," and that in return for her worship, Satan had given her the ability to read minds. Without a second thought, she signed her name to the bottom of the sheet and handed it back to him. He studied the paper for a moment and nodded to the guard. A few moments later, the door to Jean's cell was opening, and Scott Summers collapsed into the waiting arms of his wife.

_What's going on…God, it hurts…_ he was thinking, knowing that she could hear him..

"We're to be hanged tomorrow morning," she answered, running her fingers soothingly through his hair. "Hopkins thinks I wanted to spend our last night together. We've got to get out of here."

_Not much help…I can hardly walk…_

"I know. But you just have to keep on. Fight for a bit and then you'll be free to recover," she whispered comfortingly. She tore a strip off her dress and began to wipe away the blood on his face. "We just need an escape plan. Then you can rest."

Hopkins was lingering outside the door, watching them. All he saw was a woman holding her injured husband, resigned to her fate. Satisfied, he turned to leave, but was stopped when Remy called his name. He turned to face Remy, but didn't meet his red eyes, for fear of being hypnotized.

"Is it true? Is Remy gon' die tahmorrah?" he asked, keeping his voice calm. Faux hysteria would work for Jean, but it wasn't going to work for him. He needed to take a calmer, more calculating approach. One that Hopkins would find believable. He knew exactly what to do, but cringed at actually having to do so.

"Yes. In a few short hours, you are going to provide a great deal of entertainment to people on the outside."

"If Remy's gon' be so entertainin', he wants a reward."

"Why should I give you anything?"

"Remy'll sign a confession."

"In exchange for?"

"'de Rogue."

"The Rogue?"

"It's been a long tahme since Remy had a woman…" He trailed off, careful to put the right tone in his voice. It was the tone of voice that implied acts that he would never imagine committing. He hated that he had to use it, but if it got him closer to the others, it would be worth implications he was making. Also, he thought the idea of inflicting pain on Rogue would appeal to Hopkins. Apparently it did, because Hopkins quickly drew up another confession, which Remy promptly signed.

"She could kill you," Hopkins pointed out.

"_Non, _she wouldn' kill a fellow witch."

Hopkins looked over Remy's confession and quickly escorted him next door to Rogue's cell. Just before closing the door to her cell, Hopkins unlocked Remy's shackles and gave Rogue a look that made Remy's blood boil.

Rogue, however, wasn't cowering. If looks could kill, Hopkins would have been dead and smoking on the floor. Her hands were fisted, prepared for the worst. "You are going to have your hands full," Hopkins told him before slamming the door and stalking out of the prison.

Remy stood still at the door, taking her in from head to toe. He had thought that she would be beautiful, but she was _breathtaking. _ Her auburn hair was tousled around her face, the white streaks falling in her face. Her jaw was set firmly in determination, but softened upon seeing him. But what pulled him in were her eyes. They were perfectly almond-shaped, and the most beautiful shade of greed.

"Remy?" she asked, her voice strong.

"Hello, _chere._"

"It seems we got some plannin' tah do," she said, extending a hand. He took her hand and she led him to the hole in the wall between her cell and Jean's. Looking through it, they could see Jean leaning against the back wall, Scott's head resting on her shoulder, blood all over his clothes.

"Jean?" Remy whispered. Jean rose and moved closer to the hole, levitating Scott along behind her. No one missed his gasp of pain as she set him down.

"What kind of plan are you talking about here?" Scott asked hoarsely. "Because I'm not going to be much help to you."

"'Y can still use 'y eyes," Remy said. "Jean, how long can 'y hold 'im lahke 'dat?"

"A few minutes at most, and that's if I'm really concentrating." She paused in thought. "But Rogue absorbs people. She could absorb my power—"

"Ah killed mah husband. Ah can't risk it," Rogue said.

"She's right. She could kill you, Jean," Scott croaked to her. His hand tightened around hers protectively.

"Well, we're all going to die if we don't do something. It's worth an attempt," Jean said, not unkindly. She kissed her husband's forehead gently. Rogue felt a flash a jealousy that she couldn't do the same with Remy, but pushed it aside. "A few seconds won't kill me."

Jean pushed her hand through the whole, waiting for Rogue to grab hold. Scott was protesting, but to no avail. Jean just waited patiently for her to take her hand, but she wouldn't. Finally, Remy grabbed Rogue's hand, pulled the glove off and held it to his cheek.

At first he was taken aback by the softness of her skin. Shortly thereafter, he started to feel the pull of her power. It wasn't too terribly painful when he first felt it, but after a few moments, he felt weak all over, and started pitching forward. She pushed away from him, burying her fingers in a small pile of straw. Immediately, it glowed purple and burned up. She jerked her hands away and held them in front of her trying not to touch anything.

"Remy? Are yah alrahght?" she asked, her voice high and squeaky.

_Course, _chere. _Remy's gonna be jus' fahne, _his voice echoed in her mind. His thoughts were rushing through her mind, along with his feelings. She could feel his feelings, see herself as he did. Her chest tightened as she felt the depth of his feelings. She saw his recent nightmares of her dangling at the gallows. Tears streamed down her cheeks, a combination of his worry of hers and hers for him.

"O' course, _chere. _ Remy's gonna be jus' fahne," he said aloud. His voice was weak as he tried to catch his breath and recover from the few seconds of contact with Rogue. His hands were trembling.

"Ah coulda killed yah! Then where would we be? Yah don't have the rahght tah toy with yahr life lahke that!"

_Remy won' do it 'gain…_

"Remy won' do it 'gain. We jus' needed tah experiment."

"If Rogue can absorb me, we would have two people that are telekinetic. That's more than we have now," Jean said.

"But you…would be weaker," Scott added. "We should just burn through the ropes—"

"Bags on our heads," Rogue reminded him.

"If I can blow through a wall, I can burn through a bag," he replied.

"Remy agrees. We're all gonna need all 'de strength we can get," Remy said. "An' 'y can't think rahght wid' ever'body's thoughts runnin' 'round in 'y're head. Here's what we're gon' do…"

* * *

Rogue could see Jean and Scott through the hole in the wall, and closed her eyes. The simple act of holding hands was enough to cause an ache in her chest, especially after having felt Remy's feelings for her. She wanted to hold his bare hand in hers. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair. She wanted to be with him…in the Biblical sense. In any sense.

"What if we die tomorrah, Remy?" she asked. He grinned lopsidedly as he studied her face.

"We won'. 'De plan's gonna work," he said, sliding closer to her. Before she knew what was happening, his arm was wrapped around her, pulling her close against him. The heat from his body was comforting, as was the feel of solid muscle. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek as she just lie there, her head resting on his chest.

"Ah don' wanna die," she whispered.

"Neither do Ah."

"Sometahmes it happens whether we want it tah or not."

"Not tah us. Ah won' let it. Not now."

"Yah woulda let it happen some othah tahme?" she asked, half jokingly. He was silent for a long time before answering.

"Maybe some othah tahme. But not now. Not when Ah jus' found 'y," he answered, running his long graceful fingers through her hair.

"Ah can't even touch yah without hurtin' yah. Why would yah want meh—"

"'Cause Remy knows 'y strength, an' Remy knows 'y heart. 'Cause Remy loves 'y. An' 'y love meh."

"Yah sound awfully sure 'bout that," she said, a slight grin on her face.

"Remy's not always sure 'bout everyt'in'. But 'dat, Ah'm sure of."

"Meh, tah."

With that said, they pulled each other closer, each needing the comfort of the other. They couldn't make love as other couples would have on their final night together, but they shared an intimacy that few couples ever would. In those silent hours, they knew everything that mattered in the world: that they loved, and that they were loved in return.

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**Author's Note: **So, there it is. I hope you enjoyed. Please review...because that is really super cool. =)

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	6. Showtime

**Author's Note: **Huge thanks to everyone who read/reviewed/alerted/favorited. Y'all are awesome. Here is the next chapter for your enjoyment (at least I hope you enjoy it).

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In the wee hours of the morning, Remy and Rogue were laying on the cold, stone floor, trying to ignore the aches and pains in their bodies. While the company vastly improved the situation, it didn't make the floor any less uncomfortable. Rogue's back ached and Remy had a crick in his neck, but at least they weren't alone. For all their professed confidence in their plan, they were still determined to make every minute matter.

"'Y should sleep, _chere_," Remy whispered. As he spoke, she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. Despite how horribly uncomfortable the cell was, Rogue couldn't complain. She was in Remy's arms—somewhere she wanted to be, somewhere where she felt loved. It was the first time in her life that she had ever felt this way, and she wasn't ready for it to end.

"Ah don't wanna sleep. Ah'd rather be with yah," she answered. She turned in his arms so that she could see his face. There was conflict there, the very same conflict that was raging in her own mind. She knew that they both desperately needed sleep, but she didn't want to lose what could be the remainder of their lives sleeping. But, there was a nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her to sleep.

_Sleep, _chere, _o' 'y not gon' be any good tah 'y'self o' Remy o' 'de others…'Y an important part o' 'de plan…Sleep. Not just 'y life is dependin' on it…_

"Remy's gon' be here when 'y wake up. Remy's always gon' be 'dere when 'y wake up, so stop worryin' 'bout 'dat. We need tah focus on 'da plan."

She tried to focus on his words, but she was distracted by his hands moving across her back. He was trying to comfort her, she knew, but her body was looking for something else. Before she even realized what she was doing, she ran her hands down his chest, trying to undo the tiny buttons of his shirt. It wasn't until she saw the sleek muscles of his chest that she realized what she was doing, and she stopped.

"Ah'm sorrah. Ah shouldn't—"

"Stop, _chere. _ Don' be 'shamed of it. It's normal—"

"'Cept that Ah could kill yah."

Remy held face in his hands, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Rogue. Stop worryin'. We can deal wid' 'dat lattah. But 'y need tah know 'dat 'y not doin' anyt'in' wrong."

"Remy, Ah can't be with yah…physically. That's—"

"Not importan' rahght now. We can deal wid' 'dat when we get outta here."

"What if Ah can't get control of it?"

He brought her gloved hand to his lips, kissing her palm, then her wrist. He continued to trail kisses down her arm, not caring that he had reached the end of the glove. There was that strange draining sensation as he kissed the sensitive place inside her elbow. She gasped and let her head fall back.

"Yah shouldn't. Yah could…yah need yah strength…"

"Remy's plenty strong—"

She pulled herself atop him, trapping his hands between them. "We'll have plenty o' tahme for this latah…We need tah focus on the plan…"

"Remy can't focus on much o' anyt'in' wid' 'y on top o' him lahke 'dis."

She smiled sheepishly and slid off of him. Making sure that her gloves were firmly in place, she cupped his face in her hands, studying him for a long moment. Then, with slow but sure strokes, she ran her fingers over his features—putting them forever in her memory. His strong jaw line, straight nose, a wide, expressive mouth…Despite—or perhaps because of—his red eyes, his face was perfect. His skin wasn't smooth—he had several day's stubble on his cheeks—but the nicks and scratches only added to the character of his face. His roguish grin suited him perfectly.

"Yah'll hold meh? An' be here when Ah wake up?"

"Yes, _chere." _

She tried to redo the buttons of his shirt, but her gloves made things difficult. Remy quickly finished the job and pulled her to him. Her head rested on his chest, so that she could hear the comforting _thump thump _of his heart. Almost of their own accord, her fingers intertwined with his. He kissed her lightly on top of the head. Within minutes, both of them were sound asleep.

Rogue had expected to sleep peacefully in the relative comfort of his arms, but instead her dreams were strange and unsettling.

_She stood in the middle of the street, the mob of angry townspeople barely contained by her guards. They kept reaching for her, throwing things—rocks, sticks, rotten vegetables—trying to cause her harm in any way that they could. Her head was on the swivel, looking for the others that she knew should be with her. They were nowhere to be seen. _

_The guard was the same one that had caused her so many problems in the prison. He was short and stout, and cranky. What was his name? Mr. Logan. He was marching resolutely beside her, almost more like a compatriot than a guard._

"_Where are they?" she asked the guard. _

_He looked at her, his expression dangerous but meaningful. She didn't understand, and just stared at him, confused. When she got nothing further, she began frantically looking around, searching for a trace of her compatriots. A ways down the road, she saw a single glove lying the middle of the street. She didn't have to ask to know that it belonged to Remy. _

_She burst free of the guard and tore away down the muddy street. She managed to grab the glove, torn and bloody, before "Mr. Logan" snatched her up and pulled her tight against him. The pressure of his arm around her was bruising, crushing the air from her lungs. She screamed to high heaven, only to have the crowd laugh and jeer at her. _

_She hit him and got free, and took off running again. She turned the corner, and found herself facing the gallows. Hanging from the gallows were the bodies of Remy, Jean and Scott. She took off running towards them, but had made it no more than three steps before the crowd descended upon her, hitting and kicking and tearing at her. Her clothes were shredding to pieces as the pulled mercilessly on her. There was blood in her mouth, coppery tasting and vile. Breathing hurt as their fists put bruises on her ribs. _

_Rogue tried to hold out, to keep fighting until the others could come help her. After a few moments of futile struggle, an overwhelmingly horrible realization dawned on her: no one was coming. No one was going to come to her rescue or even lend her a hand. She was just going to have to do the best she could on her own._

_They seemed to tire of hitting her after a while. There was no visual spectacle in it if they beat her to death. They couldn't watch her struggle, or watch her face as the strangled to death if she died before she reached the gallows. Several of the stronger men tried to pick her up, but dropped her as they touched her bare skin. Others with gloves took their places and hauled her up the steps onto the gallows. _

_The rope was rough on the soft skin of her neck. The unraveling fibers of the rope poked her neck. It rubbed against her, and it occurred to her that she was going to have a serious case of rope burn. The irony of it all struck her quite suddenly, and she laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed. Even as they pulled the switch and the trap door opened, she laughed. _

_Instead of dropping and strangling, she fell through the noose, onto the muddy ground. A well-dressed bald man stepped forward out of the crowd, and approached her. His voice was deep and calm._

"_Rogue, this is not how it's supposed to end. You can change it."_

She jolted awake, pulling away from Remy. His arms tightened around her as he joined her in the waking world. Her breathing was heavy and labored, her expression confused. Remy looked equally as confused as she did.

"'Y alraght, _chere_?" he asked, concerned.

"Prob'ly. Focusin' on the mission."

"Good. It's show tahme," he said, listening. They could hear the loud, angry calls of the crowd that had gathered outside the prison to follow the prisoners to the gallows at the town center. The calls were too familiar. They sounded too similar to the calls that she had heard when she was brought there several days earlier. Faintly, footsteps could be heard outside the door of their cell.

"Ah don't wanna die! Please! Ah don't wanna die!" Rogue yelled, backing into the corner of the cell. Remy thought it was an admirable performance, though he knew that there was a grain of truth in her words. He put a roguish grin on his face and disheveled his clothes, trying to fake an evening of debauchery. His discarded gloves lay in the pile of hay on the floor. He found himself sickened at the pleasure he could feel coming off Hopkins in waves.

Next door, Scott was still resting in Jean's arms, his head pillowed on her breast, just as he had been all night. They hadn't needed to exchange reassuring words. He had looked at her with his bruised, bloody eyes and whispered, "If anything happens to me, know that I love you." Tears had welled in her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away and kissed him on the forehead.

"I love you, too," she answered. They had spent the rest of the night in silence, because speech was unnecessary. They had known each other since they were children, and actions meant far more for them than words ever did. That each of them trust the other enough to fall asleep in each other's arms was more than enough. Now, though, Rogue's screams awakened them, and they exchanged a nervous glance.

"It's show time," Jean whispered.

"You know, I miss the old 'good morning, did you sleep well?'" Scott whispered to her, trying to hide his nervousness. Jean kissed him lightly on the forehead and then began to mimic Rogue's frantic shrieks. It was so ludicrous that in any other circumstance, Scott would have laughed. Even when they had been arrested, she hadn't begged for her life. Anyone who knew her would know that this wasn't something that she would do.

The door opened, and Hopkins was silhouetted in the doorway, his shadow falling across the husband and wife pair. He wasn't grinning, but his thoughts were full of self-righteous satisfaction. Jean listened to his thoughts, but didn't allow them to interfere with her performance.

_Take them out in pairs, to draw out the spectacle of it. Make then men watch the women hang. But then, four hanging corpses is much more entertaining than just two. And it would serve as a lesson…Yes, it would be better to just do it all at once. The women's screaming is enough to drive even the sanest man mad. _

"Did you have a good night?" Hopkins asked them.

"Please, sir, I don't want to die! I'm a good woman! I renounce the ways of Satan and promise to follow in the Way of the Lord. Please!" The red head was shrieking at him. Her husband, battered as he was, was comforting her. Hopkins could see the resolution in the lines of his face; his mouth was a straight, flat line, and there were creases in his forehead. Yes, he had long since accepted that he was going to die.

"That is between you and the Lord now," Hopkins said. The short, stout guard that had taken Scott away to be tortured—Logan—came into the cell, and tried to pull Scott to his feet. Jean wrapped her arms around her husband so that he could lean on her for support.

"Don't you touch him!" she snapped. They stepped into the hallway, and found themselves face-to-face with Remy and Rogue. Rogue was screaming and crying and falling to the ground, while Remy tried to support her. Both men looked resolved, as if they were just going to do their best to die with some semblance of dignity. Hopkins was too distracted by his own pride to notice that as Rogue wallowed on the ground, she was very discreetly filling her pockets with stones.

The group—prisoners, guards, and Hopkins—moved slowly down the dingy hallway. They had to stop every two steps to pick up Rogue from where she dramatically flopped on the ground, or so that Scott could gather his strength. Hopkins was reveling in the terror and despair that he saw in his four victims. He hadn't expected to see them fall quite so far.

The light was blinding as they stepped outside the prison. Remy threw his arms over his face, trying to keep the light from literally blinding him. His red eyes were great for sneaking about in the dark, but less great for facing the sun at its brightest. He could hardly keep his eyes open to see where he was going, more or less worry about strategically placed explosive projectiles.

_Damn. Remy can't see. 'Da sun's tah brahght…'da plan. What 'bout 'da plan? 'Dis gonna mess wid' all o' it…_

Jean tried not to panic as she overheard Remy's thoughts, but it was getting harder by the minute. Most of their stops for Scott's benefit were just dramatics, but he wasn't in great shape, and now Remy couldn't see well enough to execute the plan. Too bad improvising had never really been her cup of tea. She looked at Rogue and _pushed _her thoughts into Rogue's mind.

_Remy can't see. We're going to have to change the plan, improvise.._

She could see the genuine fear written all over the other woman's face as she heard those words. Images of a familiar, bald stranger passed through Rogue's mind, along with his words. _Rogue, this is not how it's supposed to end. You can change it. _But it had been just a dream… A split-second later, Rogue's mind kicked into high gear, taking in their situation and trying to come up with a new plan, determined to keep her nightmare from coming true. Jean was doing the same, all the while keeping tabs on the other's thoughts.

_Ah absorb people's powers…Ah could…but Remy needs his strength, and Ah don't know a thing about throwin' cards…Remy's the only one strong 'nuff tah carry Scott…_

_Get 'yself tagethah, Remy. 'Dis is easy. Rogue gon' die if Ah can't do 'dis…_

_Stay strong…If I can just stay strong, I can rest later, with Jean…We'll be safe soon, I just have to do my part…_

Rogue's thoughts best resembled a plan, though it wasn't the kind of plan that Jean really thought was going to work. It was the only one that they had though, so bad as it sounded, it's what they were going to do. She watched as the images of Rogue's plan passed through her mind. Everyone was too distracted by her yelling to notice when Rogue pulled her gloves off and tucked them into the folds of her dress.

Then, with one final, terrible shriek, Rogue fell into Remy's arms. He caught her out of instinct, but his hands were ungloved, and upon contact with her bare hands the absorption began. She didn't touch him nearly as long as they had while experimenting the previous night, and onlookers wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary, other than a swooning girl.

Scott and Remy, catching on, did their best to play along. Remy tried to pick Rogue up, but the guard—Mr. Logan—stopped him and took her in his arms. Unfortunately, he was in long sleeves, and didn't come in contact with her skin. That would have been one less guard to deal with, which would have made things much easier. Instead, she sat there, her eyes open but heavy-lidded, waiting for her moment.

She was the first of the prisoners to reach the gallows. The others had fallen farther behind, having to keep up with Scott's slower pace. Before they got closer to the gallows, and any possible explosion, she reached for it. She expected her hand to make contact with the wood, but instead, Logan caught it in his grip, and his memories started flowing into her mind.

Logan as a child, watching his bloody hands heal before his eyes. Watching in horror as long claws made of bone pushed themselves painfully up through his hands. Slashing furniture in a fit of rage. Taking orders from a bald man behind a large mahogany desk…

"_You want me to be a prison guard?" he said, his voice low and unhappy._

"_It's going to save lives. These are not people practicing witchcraft. They're like us, a more evolved species of human, who don't understand what's happening to them. They're misunderstood, and they're going to die for it. If we have you on the inside," the man was saying._

"_I got it, Charles…"_

She gasped as he released her hand, and stared at him. He stared back at her, now looking more like a compatriot than a guard. He snatched her tight against him, manhandling her as the other guards were doing to their charges. The pressure of his arms around her was bruising, pushing the air from her lungs.

"Don't fight me," he whispered. "Just go with it."

"Ah don't know that Ah can trust yah," she answered back.

"You're just going to have to."

As the rest of the processional caught up with them, the world seemed to get darker, as if reflecting the mood of the scene. Gone was their carefully, well-thought out plan, gone was Rogue's improvised plan, and the only thing they had left was to trust this stranger…the same stranger that had helped to force confessions from them. Possibly, the same person who had almost torn Scott to pieces. No, things weren't bright and sunny for them anymore. At least Remy could see now.

Remy could see now. _Remy _could see. Rogue glanced meaningfully at him, and he raised an eyebrow, that mischievous glint back in his eye. Jean and Scott studied the other two, picking up on the unspoken communication between them. Remy slid his hand into his pocket, palming the crumpled playing cards there, before strategically tripping on his own feet. Jean and Scott continued moving, albeit slowly, as Remy tried to get himself together.

Thunder rolled, and Remy pulled three cards from his pocket, and threw them. Each one landed about a foot in front of the guards and exploded, knocking them to their feet. Scott opened his eyes, and one of his optic blasts demolished the gallows. Jean picked her husband up off the ground and floated him along in front of her as she started running towards where Rogue and Logan were standing, Remy right behind her. The crowd of people were closely following them, not wanting their entertainment taken from them.

Rogue could see Jean's strength draining as she tried to concentrated on moving Scott. They had overestimated her strength. She got slower with each step as she put too much energy into maintaining her hold on Scott. Without thinking, Rogue took off towards them.

"C'mon, Jean. Yah gotta move faster."

"I can't! Scott!"

"Put him down! I got him!" Logan shouted. Jean dropped Scott, but not without a moment of hesitation. Logan threw him over his shoulder and took off running towards the woods the stood just beyond the edge of the town. Even carrying Scott, he was moving faster than either of the women. There was a loud crack from behind them, which Rogue realized was a gun shot. Several more followed.

"Faster, Jean!"

Jean didn't answer, just picked up her pace. Thunder echoed through the town, but it didn't seem to slow anyone. The townsfolk, following the lead of Hopkins, were driven by bloodlust that couldn't be quenched. Jean pushed harder, forcing herself to catch up with Logan. Rogue dropped behind, pulling stones from her pockets and hurling them back towards the mob. They weren't quite the deadly projectiles she had planned for them to be, but it was better than nothing.

But rocks are not meant to be used against guns. As the thunder continued and rain began to fall, Rogue hurled the last of her rocks and tried to catch up with the others. The shots continued behind her, and she felt a sharp stabbing pain through her stomach. The ground seemed to get closer and closer, but just before she hit it, Remy caught her in his arms.

The rain was cold, and it was coming down too hard for Rogue to see anything. The shouts of the rest of the world got really far away, though she could still hear Remy swearing under his breath. With each step he took, the pain got sharper, until she really could feel nothing at all.

That wasn't how it was supposed to be. She wanted to feel things. The grass beneath her feet, the cool rain, the breeze against her face. Most of all, she wanted to feel the warmth of Remy's body. That comforting warmth that had gotten her through the night, and through this whole terrible ordeal. But right now, warmth was a very long way away. She didn't even notice when they reached the safety of the woods, and Remy dropped to his knees.

"Help! Help! She's been shot!" Remy was yelling, but that, too, sounded really far away. She could see his face over her, looking concerned, but everything else was fuzzy and distant.

"Remy?" she whispered.

"Yes, _chere_?"

"Are we safe now?"

He was quiet for a moment before he nodded. "Yes, _chere. _ We're safe now." The others were quickly approaching with a stranger, but all he could do was focus on Rogue. His Rogue, who was dying in his arms. It seemed that the warmth and light of the world were draining away with her blood.

"We did it. It worked," she said with a faint smile. "We can rest now."

"_Non, chere. _ Not yet. 'Y gotta stay 'wake fo' Remy."

All the pieces seemed to come together for her then. Remy's fear, the pain, the cold… "Am Ah dyin'?"

"No. Remy said 'y wasn't gonna die, and 'y won't. But 'y gotta stay wid' meh."

"Alraght…" She was smiling faintly at him, and in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be worthy of that smile. But he wasn't. He had promised her safety, and she had gotten shot. He had promised her that she wasn't going to die, and…he couldn't finish the thought.

_God, please don' make a liar outta Remy. Please…

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_**Author's Note: **So, there it is. I hope you enjoyed it. Please, please, please let me know what you think. =)


	7. All for One

**Note from Max: **So, basically, I owe y'all an apology. Because I started this story and y'all were really great about it and gave me wonderful, fabulous feedback and were totally involved, and then I stopped writing. I got caught up in other fandoms, and neglected this story and it's readers, and I am very sorry for that. Hopefully, you will enjoy this chapter and respond just as wonderfully as you did before I went and got all writer's block-y and caught up in other fandoms. Anyway, I'm sorry, and please, please, please review! Thanks!

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Remy's thoughts were screaming inside Jean's mind, panicked and fractured. He wasn't putting full sentences together, but instead images of his blood-coated gloves burned themselves into her mind. She could see the grisly bullet hole in Rogue's belly, and the puddle of blood that was pooling underneath her. She dropped to her knees, overwhelmed not only by the horrible images, but of the painful and chaotic nature of Remy's thoughts. She was too overwhelmed by Remy's thoughts to even ask about the woman approaching them.

"Help them!" she gasped. Beside her, Logan lowered Scott to the ground and turned back for Remy and Rogue, seemingly unconcerned about the new arrival. A moment later, once she had gotten herself together, she studying the approaching woman. Jean only had to glance at her—and a quick peek into her psyche—to understand that they had nothing to fear from her. She was a tall, slim woman with black skin and a head full of white hair. Yes, it was safe to say that she was not one of the many that were out for their blood.

"Who are you?" Jean asked even as she was pulling herself to her feet to make her way to where the others were.

"Right now, I am not important. But she is," the woman answered, pointing to Rogue. Jean nodded, lifted her overly abundant skirts, and ran to where Rogue was lying on the forest floor.

Her eyes were closed, and her face pale and smeared with blood. Remy's trembling hands were covering the wound in her stomach, but blood was leaking past his hands, staining the ground around them. Jean didn't have heighted physical senses, but the smell of blood was almost overwhelmed her. Logan was standing off to the side, trying ignore the smell. With his heightened senses, it was ten times worse for him than it was for her.

"She needs a doctah!" Remy said, staring up at them with tear-filled eyes.

"She isn't going to get one. They all think she's a witch. No doctor is going to treat her," Logan grumbled pragmatically.

"Well, we can't let her die," Jean answered loudly, desperately trying to think of anything that they could possibly do to make things better. She didn't know anything about medicine, and unfortunately, he was right—no doctor would help a suspected witch.

"Unless you know anything about medicine, we might not have any other choice," Logan growled into her ear. She was thankful for his discretion, because she wasn't sure that she could control Remy if he overheard him. She wasn't sure what she was going to do if Rogue died, but she also knew that she didn't have time to stand around and do nothing.

"What happened?" Scott asked, staggering over and leaning heavily on his wife.

"'Dey shot her!" Remy snapped, impatient with everyone else's inaction. "Remy don' care if 'da doctah can' treat her. We've got tah try! We can t'reaten 'em."

"We should work with what we've got. A doctor would just let her die," Scott said. "Hopkins has these people believing everything that comes out of his mouth. They are too afraid of the consequences of helping us to face death."

" 'Den it'll be a lahfe fo' a lahfe. She can drain a person's energy, 'den she can have Remy's. It could work, _non_?" he asked, desperate for any solution.

Jean could see the determination in his eyes. He was going to save Rogue, even if he had to sacrifice himself to do so. And if that's what it took , she knew that she would not stop him. Every moment that Scott had been away from her, down in the basement of the prison being tortured, she had wondered if she could do the same thing. She had silently prayed to God, begging him to take her life, if only it would save her husband's. And now Remy was doing the same. No, she could not blame him for it. Not when she understood.

Tears were streaming down Remy's cheeks as he began sobbing. The uncontrollable sobs wracked his body, pulling his hands off of her wound. Jean dropped to her knees beside him to take over the task. He pushed her aside and held his gloved hands over the wound. Jean looked around at everyone standing with her, Scott's words echoing in her mind. _Work with what we've got. _

_Logan could be of use right now…I wonder if they know…_

Jean caught just a glimpse of their visitor's thoughts, but it was enough.

"Logan, what do you do? What's your ability?" Jean asked, not bothering to be gentle in her phrasing. The adrenaline coursing through her veins was dulling any sense of tact that she had.

Logan grunted, not thrilled about being asked the reveal private information that he had worked to keep hidden his entire life. But then, he thought of Rogue's strength, and the way that she had stood up to Hopkins. She was a strong girl, and it was obvious that Remy was in love with her. He could save her, and he would. He had to. Knowing what was about to come, he sighed. "I have bone claws and an accelerated ability to heal."

" 'Y heal fast?" Remy demanded, staring up at Logan. " 'Y can save her! All 'y have tah do is touch her bare skin an' let her absorb 'yahr powahs. Why didn' 'y say anyt'in'?"

"You know she can absorb people's life force. Just hold her hand and let her take yours, just enough to heal her," Scott said, the pieces of the puzzle snapping into place.

"How will I know if she's taking too much?" Logan asked.

"I don't know. Maybe we can do it in small amounts. But you have do it now, or it's going to be too late," Jean answered urgently. Logan nodded and took Rogue's tiny hand in his larger on. Immediately, he felt the pull of his energy, his life, flowing into her. He pitched forward, falling face first to the ground. Everything began to see so much farther away, as if he were looking at the world through a long tunnel. His heart was racing, his breathing accelerated, trying to get oxygen and precious energy throughout his body. Finally, after several moments, he tore his hand away.

_A small boy, crying in terror as he stared down at the bone claws protruding from his hands…Logan, staring at his hands as he watched those gashes heal instantly after the claws retracted… A bald man sitting across a large, mahogany desk from him, explaining to him with so much hope how they could change the world... Logan, standing outside her cell, listening as Hopkins interrogated her. Watching her as she writhed in pain on the floor…_

Logan's memories pulled her painfully back to consciousness, and the first thing that she noticed was that she _ached _all over. It felt as if she had been run over by a carriage…multiple times. Her belly hurt, and not in the same way that the rest of her body did. There was a sharp pain that rolled over her in waves emanating from the wound in her torso. She pulled her eyes open and saw the concerned face of Remy LeBeau staring back at her.

"Remy?" she whispered. Her throat was dry, and her voice was raspy, as if she hadn't used it in too long. "It hurts…"

"Remy knows, _chere. _It's gon' be alrigh'. We're gon' make t'ings alrigh'," he said soothingly, placing a light kiss on her forehead. After the draining sensation faded, he smiled. For the first time all day, he cracked a smile. It was a small smile—a borderline grin—but a smile nonetheless.

"How? Doctah…"

"_Non, _unless Logan's a doctah. He's gon' heal 'y. Slowly."

They all watched in amazement as the grisly wound in Rogue's belly began to close. The blood remained, obviously, and she might be weak from the blood loss for some time, but the wound was closed. She was not going to lose anymore blood, and she was going to survive. Remy pulled her onto his lap, needing her to be close, to confirm that she was still alive and with them. When she did not scream in pain, they sighed a collective sigh of relief, grateful that they were not going to lose one of their own. Because in the past few days, that is what Rogue had become. They had banded together, forming a group to take care not only of themselves individually, but to also take care of each other. They were all for one and one for all.

"Thank yah," Rogue whispered to Logan. He nodded tiredly at her, which was the closest thing she was going to get to a smile out of him. She could see the toll that the process had taken on him—he looked beyond tired. But then, at this point, they all did. Every single one of them looked like they had been through hell and back. Except…

"Who are yah?" she asked, eyeing the white-haired stranger with suspicion. The woman smiled.

"I am Ororo Monroe," she answered with a slight accent. "But I've also been called Storm by those closest to me."

They all looked to the cloudy, overcast sky and then back at their new acquaintance. "You caused the rain," Scott said. It was not a question, either. They all were beginning to realize just how powerful this woman was. "How did you not end up in prison like the rest of us?"

Storm looked to Jean. "Why don't you tell them?" she asked the younger woman.

"Because I don't entirely understand myself. It would all be better off if we found out everything from you," Jean replied, leaning against her husband, taking comfort in his nearness.

"I am not the best person to explain things to you. That would be a better job for the Professor," Storm told them.

"The Professah?" Rogue asked.

"Yes. Professor Charles Xavier. I think you shall find him an…interesting man," Storm said.

_"Interesting, indeed. And you all are equally as interesting." _

Rogue looked around, wondering where the familiar voice had come from. It was clear to her that it was in her head, and it definitely was not Jean. But there was no one else around that she could see. Then she understood. The dream, the warning, the "it doesn't have to be this way" that had haunted her last night. It was him. He was the one walking in her mind.

"He's in mah head," she told them. "Can you hear him?"

Looking around the circle, Rogue saw her companions nodding, all with varying degrees of confusion on their faces. Apparently, they could hear him.

_"I am Charles Xavier, and I have a proposition for each of you. I can offer you a safe place where you will not be sought out, and people will not call for your blood. A place where you can be with others like yourselves, where you can learn more about your abilities away from the rest of the public." _

"And what do you want in return?" Scott asked, waiting for the catch. When things seemed too good to be true…

_"Not everyone with abilities like ours is as…responsible with them as you are. You could put your gifts to use keeping them from wreaking havoc on the rest of the world." _

" 'Y mean 'de rest o' 'da world 'dat just tried tah kill us?" Remy asked skeptically. They heard him chuckle in their minds.

_"They only fear you because they do not understand. But you do not have to fight, if you choose not to. My home will still be open to you." _

Remy looked down at Rogue, who was exhausted and nearly sleeping in his lap. If this man, whoever he was, could offer them safety…He was going to take it. They had both very nearly died, and he was not going to put Rogue in this situation again, not if he could help it. Of course, that was assuming that she wanted to go. Nearby, Jean and Scot were eyeing each other, their answer written clearly on their faces. No, they did not know just what they were getting in to, but between the group of them, they could survive anything. And if he could offer them shelter, a place safe from people calling for their blood, they were going to take it.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen? What do you think?" Scott asked.

Rogue smiled up at Remy, and he had his answer. "Remy'll go," he said.

"And meh."

"I can't imagine it being any worse than here," Jean answered. Her husband smiled and pulled himself slowly off the ground.

"Well, let's be off, then."


	8. Unless You Ask Me To

**Author's Note**: So here is the final chapter. I'm super sorry about the delay in posting, but at least it's up. Please review, because it's the final chapter and I really want to know what you think, just in case I decide to do a sequel because I think there is so muchto be explored in a past x-men world. And it's the last chapter, so please review!

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It took them a full two days to reach their destination, and by the time that they got there, all of them were so exhausted that they didn't really care where they wound up as long as they had a bed to sleep in. On the journey, they had slept in the woods under an improvised shelter on the cold, wet ground, which meant that none of them had really gotten much sleep at all. Logan and Storm could have led them to a broken down dugout on the side of the road, and they would have been glad.

But they found themselves at a large manor house instead. It was set back on a hill and surround by fields of heather. Strong wrought iron gates attached to a large stony wall ran around the outside of the estate, and Rogue wondered how often those gates had been used protecting the inhabitants of the house within.

_Not often. The people around here leave us to our own devices. _

She jumped as she heard his voice in her head again; it was something that she would probably never get used to. Since her run in with her dead husband inside her head, she didn't think that she would ever like the idea of another person being inside her head. Having Logan in there was not a very pleasant experience, either.

The group made their way down the lane—Scott and Jean leading the way, hand in hand. Rogue and Remy followed closely behind, his hand wrapped gently and carefully around her sleeve-covered wrist. She wanted to hold his hand, to actually hold his _hand, _but that was not a possibility. They were a dirty and tattered group; their clothes were stained with blood and mud, torn in all sorts of places. Each of them looked positively dreadful. But when a young woman opened the front door of the manor, they were welcomed inside with open arms.

"Please, come in and have a seat. The Professor has been expecting you. I'm Katherine Pryde," she said, showing them into a sitting room. With all the fine furniture, Jean was almost afraid to sit down on it. But then Logan sat down and left a large mud stain, so she didn't feel so bad about it. "You all look so exhausted. Can I offer you some tea?"

_Poor things, they look like they're about to fall apart. Well, the Professor said that they had a long journey. But oh, all that blood on the furniture! We'll just have to replace it again…_

Her thoughts made Jean laugh aloud, a laugh that spread to all the others in the room. It was wonderful that Katherine was thinking blessedly normal things—about tea and furniture—in time like this. It gave them all something familiar to hold on to when they had been thrown into a world where they knew nothing.

"I'll just…I will go get the tea," their hostess said, confused. As she left, an older man came into the room, and they could all tell just by looking at him that he was the one they had heard in their heads. He was bald—not a single hair on his head—but it did not make him look any older than he was. It was not until several moments after he entered the room that any of them noticed that he was in a wheelchair, the wheels propelled by some unseen force.

"How are yah makin' da wheels turn?" Remy asked, not bothering to mince words.

The man smiled. "I am professor Charles Xavier—"

"Yah were tha one in our heads," Rogue said.

"I was. This is what I call my haven for people like us, people who have special gifts. The world is not ready to accept us, not when there are men like Hopkins telling them that we are worshippers of Satan. Until the world is ready for us, which potentially will not be for a long time, perhaps not in our lifetimes, I can offer you shelter here. You could stay here with others who are like you, who have powers that they do not understand and cannot control. We can work together and learn how to do so," he said with a pointed look at Rogue.

"So everyone here has powers?" Scott asked. Xavier nodded. "The girl who let us in?"

His question was answered for them as she came straight through a wall—as if it were not there at all—carrying a tea tray. Jean jumped at the sudden intrusion and Remy swore very creatively. Katherine set the try down on the table and continued to serve tea as if nothing were wrong, like it happened every day. Perhaps it did.

"And yah can talk in our heads?" Rogue asked.

"I am a telepath. I have the ability to read and influence people's thoughts," he answered calmly.

"Influence t'oughts? 'Den why aren't 'y influencin' 'de world to not hate us?" Remy demanded.

"It does not work like that, Remy. I cannot just start influencing people to do whatever it is I want them to. Part of what makes us human is our ability to think rationally and to make our own decisions. Forcing them to think as I do is a violation of that."

"A vi'lation? Well that _vi'lation _could save lives!"

"And it also makes us as bad as Hopkins."

The comparison ended the argument, because as much as they all hated the current circumstances, they knew that he was right. Hopkins brainwashed and intimidated people in believing what he said—with some help, clearly—and didn't give them a choice. They couldn't do the same, not if they wanted to be able to face themselves every morning.

"Yah said that yah could teach meh to control mah powers?" Rogue asked quietly.

"Yes. It would take extensive work, but I believe that eventually you could accomplish it."

And that was it for her. If he could help her find a way to control her powers, she had to stay. To actually be able to touch another human being was worth whatever restrictions he would put on her. To have a chance to _feel _the stubble on Remy's jaw, to hold his hand without a glove, to maybe have a true wedding night…She had to stay.

And Remy could see that in her face. She wanted to be able to control her powers almost as much as she wanted to breathe, and he could understand that. He wanted to be able to touch her cheek or kiss her lips without worrying about getting himself killed in the process. He wanted to hold her hand—no gloves—when they finally got married. He didn't have to ponder and think about whether or not this was a step that he wanted to take; he already knew. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with his Rogue. If that meant staying here, then he would stay here.

Jean heard the thoughts coursing through everyone's mind, and tried to push them out. She focused on Katherine—Kitty, as she liked to be called. Jean grinned at the nickname; it suited her. Kitty was small but agile, and there was something slightly feline about her face: the way her eyes were shaped and her small delicate nose. Kitty was happy here. She found a home where her parents were not always afraid of having their secrets revealed and watching their daughter get killed in front of them. Kitty wanted them to stay. The more the merrier, after all.

Scott saw his wife's expression , and knew that they were staying. "Well, it has been a long trip, and we are all exhausted. Perhaps we could retire to our quarters and get started tomorrow?"

Xavier smiled and nodded. They were shown to their rooms—Jean and Scott in one room, Rogue in another, and Remy in a third. Long after the rest of the house was quiet, Jean was awake, studying her husband's face. He was exhausted, but he was still awake also, staring right back at her.

"I love you," she whispered, kissing him lightly on the mouth. He deepened the kiss, and when the pulled away, they were both breathless.

"I love you, too."

She ran her tiny fingers over his cheeks, his jaw, his nose as if trying to commit his face to memory—not that she would ever be able to forget it. But to be able to feel the heat of her husband's body, to feel his skin under her fingers…she hurt for Rogue and Remy.

"Think of how awful it must be for Rogue. She cannot touch her husband…"

"Husband? He's dead, Jean."

"Oh, I meant Remy. He's going to propose," she whispered quietly with a laugh.

Across the hall in Rogue's room, Remy was sitting at the edge of the bed, waiting for Rogue's answer. It had not been the most well-worded of proposals, but it happened. He had snuck into her room, knowing that he would find her awake. And without wasting any time, he had said, "Marry me, _chere._"

"What?" she asked.

"Be Remy's wahfe. Please."

She was staring at him, shock in her eyes, a thousand thoughts running through her head. Should she say yes? She wanted to. She wanted to marry Remy and be with him to have and hold as long as they both should live, but she also knew that there was a very high possibility that she would be the reason that they were both no longer living.

"Ah could kill yah—"

"Remy don' care. 'Y'll get control o' it one day, and 'dat day will be…"

"A very good day, indeed," she finished. "Yes. Yes, Ah'll marry yah."

No one was surprised at the announcement the next morning, and no one was surprised when Rogue threw herself into training with everything she had. Every waking moment, she was working on building concentration, putting up those walls, pushing the limits of her mind in order to find that control. When it didn't work, when she felt herself draining her training partner—usually the professor or Remy—she tried to kill the feeling of disappointment so that she could keep trying.

When the tailor came to take her measurements, she had to warn the woman to wear gloves. She was designing her entire wedding around the fact that Remy wasn't going to be able to touch her. Not that there was a lot of wedding to plan. She would wear her dress, Jean and Scott would be witnesses—the rest of the household would be there, too—and she and Remy would be married in the parlor. A small wedding, so different from her first one.

Rogue had silk gloves for the ceremony. If Remy could not touch her, at least the silk was soft. She had a long-sleeved dress and a long veil, not willing to risk any slips. She didn't want her "gift" ruining her wedding day anymore than it already was. She still pushed herself hard during her sessions with Professor Xavier, and she could feel herself getting closer and closer, but that control was ever-elusive.

The morning of her wedding dawned bright and early. The birds were chirping outside her window long before Jean entered with a tray of tea and breakfast. Sun was shining through the windows, not a cloud in the sky. The perfect day to get married. Despite her disappointment at not having yet gained her control, she was still excited. As of tonight, she would be Mrs. Remy LeBeau. No more stuffy title, no more marriage of convenience stuff. She would be married to the man she loved.

"Are you ready?" Jean asked as she helped Rogue into her dress. It was a beautiful pristine white dress made of the softest silk. Stays made her waist tiny, though it was tiny enough without them. Against her pale dress, her hair stood out even more, and her green eyes shone bright and clear with excitement.

"Ah wish that…but yes, Ah'm ready. Ah'm ready to marry him."

Jean didn't miss that wistfulness in her friend's voice, but she chose not to acknowledge it, instead trying to focus on all the good things. This did not escape Rogue's notice, but she let it happen, also trying to focus on the good things about getting married today. She would be tied to the man she loved, and him to her, and for now, that was enough.

"You are ready to be married," Jean said, slipping the veil into place.

Downstairs, Remy was waiting anxiously for his bride as the rest of the household took their seats in the parlor. Finally, he heard her approach, and when he finally saw her at the foot of the steps, she took his breath away. She was always beautiful, but she was stunning in her wedding gown. Even the feel of her silk gloves in his hands was not enough to take away from his happiness.

"Ah, Rogue, take yah, Remy, tah be mah lawfully wedded husband…"

He felt the weight of the wedding band on his finger and it was all he could do to keep himself from kissing her then and there.

"I, Remy, take 'y, Rogue, tah be mah lawfully wedded wife…"

As he slid the ring on over her glove, tears spilled down her cheeks. Tears of overwhelming happiness that couldn't be expressed any other way. There was an ear to ear smile on her face, and he knew that for a moment, she had forgotten that she didn't have control over her powers.

"You may kiss the bride."

He lifted the veil and kissed her without a second thought for his safety. Jean, who had seen it in his thoughts and knew it was coming, nearly sprang out of her seat to stop him, to remind him that it was too dangerous. But she was too late. She waited for the cries, for him to feel that familiar draining sensation that told him she was sapping his strength.

But it never came.

Instead, Rogue pulled away and stared at her husband for a moment, realizing what had just happened. Then her smile grew even wider.

"Ah did it. Ah didn't hurt yah."

"_Non, chere_, 'y didn'."

"Ah controlled it," she said, disbelief in her voice. He kissed her again—not caring that it was grossly inappropriate in front of everyone, especially the minister—just to prove that he could. There was nothing. No pain, no feeling of having the life leeched out of his body. She had controlled it.

Immediately, she pulled her glove off and took his hand in hears, marveling in the feel of it. Rough hands with calluses from work. He felt soft, smooth hands from being inside gloves for so long. But they both felt the complete sense of belonging, of knowing that this is where they were supposed to be.

"Ah love yah," she whispered.

"Remy loves 'y, too. 'Y know 'dat 'dis means we could—"

"Ah know," she answered, a mischievous look in her eyes.

"—and 'y won't hurt me…"

"No, Ah won't. Not on purpose. Well…not unless yah ask me tah."


End file.
